Catperson, Birdperson
The real reason I like literature is that I don’t want to commit myself. If the possibility of multiple meanings exist, then nothing can be pinned on me.
Did I mean to imply that you’re extra special to me? More so than others? You can never be certain. Probably, but there is some comfortable blur there. There’s face-saving deniability.
The richness and expansiveness of metaphor is wriggle room; cognitive dissonance room. Its where uncomfortable ideas can wriggle out from my sub-conscious without me having to acknowledge that they are there. Its a relief to release them; they can be let go, without ever having really been there in the first place. I can keep myself clean.
I can remain indeterminate; both a wave and a particle at the same time. I prefer to have a veil of poetry over things. A veil of safety, like hair flopping over my eyes so I don’t have to see things properly.
Success is a strange word. A bird can’t succeed at being a bird. A cat can’t succeed at being a cat. A cat might try to catch a bird, and succeed, but it doesn’t think — haha! success! I caught that bird because I’m awesome. I’m so good at catching birds. I’m better than the other cats. Those other cats are shit compared to me.
It doesn’t change how it thinks about itself depending on whether it catches the bird or whether it doesn’t. It doesn’t change what it thinks it is worth depending on how it performs. It doesn’t compare itself to other cats.
A cat might try to catch a bird, and fail, but it doesn’t think ‘I’ve failed’. It just tries and tries and tries. It doesn’t feel bad about itself if it doesn’t do it. It doesn’t think…I didn’t catch that bird, I’m a loser of a cat. I don’t deserve Fancy Feast tonight, I don’t even deserve dry food. I hate myself.
I don’t deserve to have Louise stroke me. If I get used to letting Louise stroke me and then one day she doesn’t feel like stroking me any more, I’ll miss it like crazy. So I shouldn’t allow myself to get to like it. Better to do without.
It doesn’t think it needs to DO anything to earn my love. It just thinks … I didn’t catch the bird this time. Next time, I will.
What was I afraid of? Not being the best at everything; not being the smartest; of making mistakes; of not knowing things; of being laughed at; of being shamed; of being dumb; of being weird; of being judged by other people and found wanting, of failing. Of failing at anything, or everything.
It could have been doable to be very, very low key about it… hey, I kind of like you. Lets hang out for a while. But we already knew that we kind of liked each other. We were friends who had the same annoying little voice inside our heads, imitating our voices mockingly..
…I kind of like you… I kind of like you… hey, lets hang out…lets hang out…
You’re so beautiful, I want to kiss you, to touch you, I love you, I love everything about you; the tiny mole on your arm, your delicate fingers, your crooked arms that don’t quite straighten, your rolling walk, your delicate waist and shoulders above your solid hips, your expressive eyes, your curls, your smell of body shop rose oil perfume and clove cigarettes and dirty hair and sunshine.
Unexpectedly, we had things in common. That I could have things in common with someone so…free, so cool. Someone who didn’t care about high marks, someone who wasn’t afraid to say what she thought. Someone who wasn’t afraid. That’s what I thought then, that she wasn’t afraid of anything. And that’s how I wanted to be. I felt like I was afraid of everything.
She seemed to admire things about me; and her admiration made those things seem worth admiring — she liked things about me that other people with social standing had only ever thought were weird and uncool. I had a few friends that had always liked me, but they were geeky too. I felt like I had been recognised, named.
Did I love her? I think I wanted to be her, and I wanted to love myself. Later I realised that she was afraid too, just not afraid of the same things I was.
