the truth about my Kat

my Kat is not mythological. he has no healing powers. he sleeps everywhere. he makes weird grunting noises when happy. he wakes me up at unseemly hours. he does not even pretend to understand what i say or feel. he is easy to wash. he likes drinking from the tap, and tries to open it […]

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resizing of cats

my Kat changes his weight and size depending on external conditions. he becomes small when he wants something. he becomes light when he walks on the banister. when he decides to wake me up by jumping onto me from the window-sill, he becomes heavy. at night, when he guards me as we sleep, he grows very […]

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bonding? madness? spring? or maybe it is the universal need to catch the moth before the moth catches one’s wardrobe

i’ve already written of the bond (emphatic, sometimes telepathic) with my cat. the link originally was meant for dogs (bonding) and i normally use it for interpreting (empathy, anticipation, suchlike) or translation in the world of humans, but i have no dog at the moment, and so … apparently i have bonded with my cat. […]

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things move

the clouds in stratosphere shift invisibly, under the cover of low, rain-soaked spreads closer to earth; rain-clouds come closer to find all sorts of parade, or maybe the remnants of snow; and they rain; wind moves cyclons. or maybe the other way round; air masses move branches, and trees, and waves, and all sorts of […]

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how linden trees give names

they (the linden trees) are gnarled and crabby, and craggy, and at least a hundred years old. we (the people) are crabby and smooth, and the wrong shape, and too quick to die. they observe us when we come within their range of perception. they think slowly, arboreally. they write their observations into their time-lines […]

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she sings

she is a mature queen-cat. her woman died last year, and now she lives in the yard, hiding in the basement, sneaking into corridors, that sort of thing. people of the house feed her rather regularly. she talks to them all the time, but nobody seems to listen. and sometimes she sits on the steps […]

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rain

is a sign of autumn, the smell of raw water in the nostrils of all people splashing, hurrying, covering themselves improperly in umbrellas and raincoats. rain reminds. of thick morning fogs skewered by sunshine, the fragrant sod, freshly cut open, and potatoes, pale and moist, just discovered, ripe to be picked. rain sloshes up thoughts, […]

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something that is ‘i’ looks out at something that is ‘you’, asking too many rhetorical questions zeugmatically

you smell of rain, and dark belanterned sky, of sheets of water,driven at odd angles to reality, or was it horizontal? i forget. you sound like dripping silences, complete with rattling rooftops, shards of skylines tinkling at sunrises, or maybe sunset hours. i do not remember. your eyes are monuments to galaxies, passing and of […]

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multilevel forgetfulness

on the borders of sleep, between what is and what will never be, or maybe, between what was and what only seemed, she steps in. grey, and a little bent over her walking stick, she hovers at the margins of perception, and i know her, always have known. she is my mother. or what i […]

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Twenty-one. Of clearing rooms

i put to you this: the level of friendship or trust can be measured by how much one cleans their home before the arrival of someone. and thus, i make the following list of people arriving, their labels, and the corresponding amount of cleaning: total strangers one has invited for unknown reason total strangers who […]

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Twenty. Gifts

i am part of a denomination which has a very strange attitude to women. women in general are, not unlike the children of the victorian era, to be seen, but not heard. women who think about ministry, however little, are to be walked through like they did not exist at all. yes, there are few […]

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Sixteen. Word thief

to be a translator is to be a thief of words. to go out, into the peopled streets and the public transport full of language carriers. to listen, and to capture words, intonations, expressions. to sort them out, like butterflies, into genres and categories, and fill scrapbooks with them. and then, sometimes, just sit and […]

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Eight. No word for ‘die’

some classroom discussion made me look deeper into the old english vocabulary for ending of life. and here is a thing: there is no general verb for ‘die’ in old english. no word for ‘just stop living’. there are words like steorfan, sweoltan, beon/wesan dead, beon/wesan slihte, and so on. or words that described a […]

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the small places we come from

wind scoops handfuls of coloured leaves and carries them up towards the pure indigo of the maple-lit autumn; they glow in lamplight, as the quarter-moon cuts a triangular window across the clouds, and then remain somewhere there, big stones in the endless river of sky. the small places we come from, little more than so […]

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