From the Inland Empire
My father just got back from Egypt and Israel. The tour de Old Testament prophets. The night he got home he sat us down in the dining room to have a look at some photos, snapshots, from the trip. Among them were pictures of, yes, olive presses and old Hebrew men, there were guards and scenic shots of Aaron’s (supposed) tomb. He sat on a camel with a student and took “art” pictures of my brother lying on the ground as if dead. But littered among these sometimes-encouraging-horrifically-depressing-comments photographs were pictures of cats. At least ten of them.
It is true, my father loves cats.
On his spiritual pilgrimage, accompanied by people buying diamonds and thousands of souvenirs, he took pictures of cats and a few other small animals.
And this is how I know that Vonnegut was right.
We Do, Doodley Do,
Doodley Do, Doodley Do,
What We Must,
Muddley Must,
Muddley Must,
Muddley Must,
Until We Bust,
Bodily Bust,
Bodily Bust,
Bodily Bust.–Bokonon
“Father, we are here to help each other get through this thing. Whatever it is,” these are the wise words of Vonnegut’s son.
I am living in the Inland Empire. Surrounded by vacant houses. For Sale by Bank. I wake up late because there is nothing to welcome me but hollow searches for wedding dresses and jobs. I search and search online for something. And have dreams about being near people I love. There is no blood here. It is like the Pillar of Fire. Without the innocence.
But there is my parent’s cat. And pink lady apples. Oh zinc, you do drop your lean and massive body into the corners beside my body so well! I do love you, old chap.
And as my mother exclaimed tonight with utmost fervor and thrill (in regards to applying for a position at a tutor agency),
“I think you should just put on a dress and march in there!”
And so we shall.