(Cat)atonic

There comes a point in time when a wannabee writers is faced by the stark truth: that writing is a grueling matter, much like a begrudged stomach.

Lately, I have been wondering to and fro, thinking of how much there is to make out of writing. I remember pieces of myself, like Jewel's "Pieces of You" song, cascading in what seems to be an edgy ball at the rim of a glass. How it cascades at the rim of a glass is a jarring thought, a seemingly and unmistakably senseless excuse for my incapacity to describe or narrate well. Well, in such cases as this, I wonder which really comes first: the thought or the afterthought?

I saw Kit and Aste yesterday. Aste grew thin, slighted with mediocre pimples, while Kit was flashy, her eyes concealed by windshield-shaped spectacles. We really didn't talk about writing, the art of it, or the lack of it, or the use of it. Rather, we talked about binging and drinking and some thoughts and afterthoughts of collegiate life, a bit of politics, and a get-together. I left them under the hoods of the Faculty Center Walk. And I walked past the waiting shed, boarded a UP-Katipuan jeep, saw Omeng's object of love and lust, paid my fare, and descended a bit far from the UP College of Mass Communication. And then I walked past the trees, the vendors, the grass, unmindful of the heatwave, puffed a Winston Lights, and hurried home.

Now, I am here in Tandang Sora, trying to get to sleepdom. My spirit is willing to sleep, but my flesh is weak. Cheky, the household mother cat, earlier this week, gave birth to three kittens. Until now, her pussy's into bleeding. I worry for her. She's unusually silent, I surmise maybe because she's overfatigued nursing her babies. Or maybe she's just plain too old already. She's goddamn tired, I see. A couple of days ago, she refused to nurse her kids.

Are there feminist cats? Cheky might be one. And Isabel too.