Hello my Kantian Kitties, come and let me stroke the soft fur of your moral absolutism as you snuggle on my lap and wait for me to Vito up by telling you all the things I can not do. Oh Kittie don’t be afraid. I know it’s a mess in here, a tragic wasteland where a good Kittie could get lost in the rubbish. But I’ve been too busy to clean. Busy keep my friends close but my enemies closer so don’t disrespect me Kitties, Buena Serra, Buena Serra why do you disrespect me like this? You come here wanting me to do murder but you can’t fix all the holes in my mind so run along undertaker, go and bury me softly in this world.
I wonder if Vito’s boy abhorred what he had become even as he embraced it’s imperatives? I wonder this as I too walk my monkey strut across my driveway after I’ve had a brother in law named Hope strangled by a henchman I call Regret. And still you purr sweet pretty Kantian Kitty because you don’t believe in their god. You still believe in your Kitty god because he’s yours and everybody loves to stroke a good kitties sweet spot and call it god.
Oh listen Kitty there’s a storm brewing outside my window and it’s not just in my head anymore. Clouds are amassing, thunder rattling the horizon, the only thing rattling my horizon Kitty, bad kitty don’t get your hackles up, you’re safe inside and there’s a big bowl of comfort in the corner and it’s made of the atoms between you and I so take comfort in being you and not I and if I talk too hard I know you’ll claw your way to freedom ’cause you’re a good kitty and the excavation has begun. See I have the claw marks on me fresh and vivid, unlike the past, which is blurry and faint giving way to this meandering wait for an ignored obituary I won’t read either.
Good Kantian Kitty, good for you for all the right reasons, not fear or hope which keeps you from scratching each others eyes out is it? You’ve been given your shots full of Categorical Imperative; only for some reason I don’t trust all you good kitties and wonder if you’re still rabid with survival, kept tame by an idea as fragile as the law.
But shhhh, shhh I shouldn’t talk too hard: I’m obtuse like a crazy prophet, obdurate like a bad idea grown big with time. My Cultural Revolution has begun and you’re a Maoist pig Kittie, a Kittie contradiction since you’re also a bourgeois son of a bitch landlord. But if I stay homeless long enough you’ll have nothing on me. My head is naked and cold, Winter’s coming and the warmth of flesh is denied; but one gets used to being cold and alone. There are places to hide in the dark which has no morality except for what we bring into it so there’s always our human confort in our ideas even if my ideas and yours go separate ways. THere’s no Kittie god in the darkness of the hollow tree so I’m leaving my light saber outside to rot away in the storm with all the other Kittie god keepsakes. Maybe that’s just because we need two to joust and the hollow tree admits but one just as the hollow man admits but none.
Oooh I see judgment in you eyes again Kitties; that’s not fair, you’ve been indocrintaed and don’t even know it. We’re all so immune to this disease as long as we don’t eat the apples hanging from the hollow tree. But I have Kittie. I had to and even if it was my loneliness which brought me to the tree it doesn’t make the tree any less real. THe apple still gleams red and apples can get harder to eat the older you get. An old man’s teeth are no weapon for the truth. And perhaps I’d have been better fiding the tree later and take in its fruit in bits and pieces with a carving knife to assist the slow deliberation of the wasteland behind me. But even good Kitties have to find a place to be snug and warm and that was mine even before I knew the tree was hollow and I could go inside and play Space Invaders on a radio tuned to 1983.
THat doesn’t make sense but neither do all good kitties hanging idols on their collars and calling it home. A good tree can still come with cable and as long as we have that we’ll always have each other because in the end we’re both good kitties. Your shots are just obscured because you didn’t get them in the head and a cold and naked head reveals all. But the Dr’s don’t tell us the truth: the shots don’t last forever kitties. Disease will claim us yet and at best all we can really hope for is to become someone elses hollow tree, one grown out of our scattered seed, one in which a memory will pour like water onto the future and a molecule of matter or a meme of idea will speed branches towards the empty sky.
Just don’t go inside your own tree yet kittie. It’s dark in here. Now run along. Go play with the other kitties. I have a wasteland to contemplate before it gets too dark.
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