New Stuffs

Jenny Holzer Shot Glasses




Porcelain Paper Clay Bust



Well, I guess I gave up on the blogging...

I realized that catz are much too popular of a topic to dedicate a new blog to.
Also, I am no longer living with the face of the website, Snowball, and have had a hard time finding inspiration with the lack of cat around.

Despite the fact that everybody loves catz and wants to look at pictures of them and read poems inspired (vaguely) by them, I will have to change the content of this blog (although it will keep its title) so that I don't feel so pressured to consider catz more often than my current lifestyle permits.

I don't know what's coming next, I assume that everybody who ever read this has stopped checking it since I have stopped updating it but, I'll give it another go and we will see what happens.



The closer we are to one another,
the better we can see
our human faces.



I love you like a
who eats up half the sea
on his way to China.
He carries with him
the movements of the ocean
and all of the little fish
who cheer him on
from inside his belly
playing scrabble
by the fireside,
eating biscuits and gravy
and chanting
"you are in love!
you are in love!"
And the
smiles all the way
up to his eye
and spits out the ocean
on China's front porch
so that he can swallow me up
and love me inside.



I just saw the Chuck Close exhibit
at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art
and I'm listening to Philip Glass
and contemplating layers and
the roles that each play upon each other,
the layer of skin
on muscle,
on bone,
on organs.
The layer of atmosphere
on biosphere,
on land,
on plants,
on animals,
on us, on us.
on top of you,
and everything else
above us.


"it ain't gonna lick itself"



I like to see you in the Spring,
when you are just starting to show your bare arms
to the sunlight.
Your skin changes color at slightest exposure;
you appear golden.
Through the winter,
your features have rounded
-keeping you warm-
and now,
the softness on your belly
and your breasts shows through
your spring clothes.
You look like a mother,
you look like the earth.



I have this dream of placing millions of clay cats
all around my home.
I like the clay because it turns hard and is from the earth...
I like the cats because they too can turn hard,
strong and uncompromising,
and they are true creatures of the earth,
Hard and from the earth;
these must be the terms I depend on,
the way I expect life to be.



He does not like being told what to do,
if he wants to sit in the remnants of the gift,
he will sit.
You mustn't worry about the paper cuts
or the crinkling discomfort;
let him experience them for himself.
Let him realize that
no one
is going
to wrap
and that
everyone else
has moved on
to the dining room
for poached eggs and spinach.
He will wonder,
as the sun slowly arches
over the southern sky,
how he came to be alone
in these paper bedsheets
and he will move his body
to hear the sounds beneath him.
It is okay.
He does not like being told what to do;
let him sit, let him sit, let him sit.



A Departure from Cats
Recent Noteworthy Purchases
Some Words for Maira Kalman

This book is pleasure.

I bought this drawer today.
It is rectangular and old
and exactly what I always wanted.

This book was also purchased today
and it is wonderful!
Knowing your poodle precedes
enjoying your poodle.

As for Maira Kalman...
thanks be.



Judd and I drew this picture together
because we couldn't decide on a movie to watch,
or a book to read.



Cats in color is a whole new thing!



no one ever told him that he was going to look like a ghost forever.
he believed the translucence was temporary,
that his misty breath was only a sign of youth.
it wasn't bad though,
looking like a ghost.
it wasn't as bad as living
like a ghost,
where all he could ever feel was a breeze
under his sheet,
and two black holes behind his eyes.
no one saw him,
or they saw right through him
and it was like that from the day he was born,
since the day he was born.



You thought that this bridge represented
the whole
of all things
you have ever been sad about:
people dying, people leaving,
your grandmother, your father,
your face,
the prospect of being alone for
the rest of your life.
You thought,
you thought,
as a cat looking back
before entering,
until you stepped on through
and nothing changed.



le finale
part 4:

Our final date was at the cemetery. It was my choice but if I had known it was going to be our last, I would have gone for sushi again. We sat at the grave of Emile Laroque because it was a French name, and I knew that it meant “the rock,” and for some reason I thought you were going to propose to me. Instead, you told me it wasn’t working out; you were unhappy. I said “goodbye,” and you left us there, Emile and myself. I patted the dry grass and looked at the picture on the floral wreath resting on the Frenchman’s headstone; oh how his face penetrated the black and white. I thought that if he were still alive, we could surely be together. He, unlike you, would already know French and would probably find my loom charming.



Part 3 of Falling out of Love:

I had never had sushi before this night. When we went into the city (I was wearing my green shoes that click on the pavement) I felt so worldly and sophisticated. The lights and traffic whisked around me and everything felt so wonderfully complex. I imagined that my life too was complex; I felt bright and wet, slick and carmine like the sashimi. I thought perhaps we had been drawn together by a common appetite, but I guess you weren’t as hungry as I thought.



Part 2 of Falling out of love:

Neither of us enjoyed hiking so instead we went for strolls in the national forest. This was when we found that large wash that was dry and sandy and I took off my shoes so that I could wiggle my toes in it. I wanted to take everything else off, I wanted you to see me naked but you had found this bone on the ground and you were not looking at me. "It's part of a jaw," you said, brows lowered, caressing it with your fingers. I stood behind you and made biting motions with my mouth;
I wanted to eat you up.



Double trouble,
sleeping cats.



Mi amore,
call me Dickens
and I'll write a novel about our love.
It will be long and verbose,
never attainable,
but highly sexual.