The Magical Cat from The Song Itself
I woke staring at the yellowed ceiling and feeling the oppressive weight of
cigarette smoke on my lungs. Vacant thoughts poured through my head: I
better get going to work; I must be late because the sun is already up;
which city am I in today? Slowly the events of the evening—the fire, the
moon, the stirring music—all trickled into my consciousness. They flowed
slowly and filled my recollection drop by drop until I remembered where I
was sleeping.
A phlegmy cough from the other room shocked me into sitting; that odd little
guitarist, Epi, was rummaging around the kitchen. A swirling gray cloud of
smoke lit by the rays of the morning sun was the beacon of his presence.
“There ya go, honey,” Epi crooned with affection. “Hope ya like yar
breakfast, Stinker; it’s lamb and rice, all organic like usual. Only the best fer
Epi’s ol’ friend.”
Naturally, without thought, I reached for an open pack of cigarettes sitting
on the coffee table and lit one. It tasted stale and bitter. “Ya’re awake,
uh? Ya want some grub? Or how ‘bout a cup-a-joe?” I then heard the
familiar click of the microwave door and its hum of work. I wondered if he
ever brewed coffee or whether he just recycled what was left in some cup
he had left neglected the week prior. He walked out of the kitchen holding
two mugs and a hotdog sandwich. “This should cure any pangs in yar
stomach,” he stated, thrusting the meal at me with pharmacological
assurance. “Wash that sucker down with a good ol’ cup-a-joe.” The coffee
spilled over the sides and onto a book as he set it on the coffee table.
“So, how did ya sleep?”
I took the sandwich from him. The cold pink dogs poked their unappetizing
heads from between the bread slices. “I guess pretty well,” I yawned. “I
mean, I don’t even remember sleeping, only closing my eyes and waking
up.”
“Good, very, very good. That’s what I like ta hear—a Lucretian rest,” he
proclaimed proudly, nodding his head as if he had some role in the
endeavor of sleep. “But now ya’re awake, right?”
“Yes,” I answered, feeling a bit anxious at his question.
“Ya positive?”
“Yes, I am positive,” I replied indignantly.
“Now ya don’t have ta get all in a tizzy, I’m just makin’ sure, ‘cause all kinds
a folks’re walkin’ ‘round like they’re all awake, but they ain’t. Anyway, how’s
the grub?”
“I’m sorry, thank you. I appreciate the food and also your generosity for
letting me sleep here last night. I’ve been feeling sort of…” I paused to
frame my words without jeopardizing myself, “I’ve been feeling a little out of
sorts, as of late, and thank you for your hospitality.”
He gave me a wink as a large, gray tabby with celadon eyes strutted from
the kitchen, hopped to the oak chair and began to lick herself. Epi watched
my eyes follow the cat. Epi’s face lit with excitement and that, now familiar,
sly smile emerged.
“A magical cat has taken up residence with yar old, eccentric frien’ Epi.” He
picked the cat up, sat down in the armchair, and placed the compliant
animal on his lap. He spoke of their meeting, and immediate recognition of
kinship, as if it was yesterday. He leaned back, relaxing his shoulders and
grinning at the opportunity of recounting the scenario. The cat appeared
less engaged, arching her back in callisthenic parabolas. “Yep, she’s a
kinetic disciple a Appolonius,” he said, pointing to the posturing animal on
his lap. “Pistis is what keeps ol’ Epi sane…”
“Oh yeah, the beginnin’,” he began, “that was quite a day. That was a day
much like yesterday, full a fire trucks, smoke and murder.” he winked. “But
that was ‘bout ten years ‘go, yep it was. That was the day the batty bitch,
who was living ‘bove the ‘Taste a Cairo’, made a life changin’ decision (and
a death decision, I’d like ta add). Yep, that loony took a gallon a diesel and
made herself inta a molotov cocktail. The whole damn thing was quite a
hootenanny. She chose ta incinerate herself on her fourth-story balcony.
Everybody showed up fer the spectacle, ‘seemed like the whole damn city
came ta watch. First, ya had the people that were just walkin’ by, then ya
had all the cops, followin’ them ya got both the media and the fire trucks.
The waves a spectators built until the fuckin’ melodrama crescendoed with
the evil witch lightin’ a cigarette and poof, it was then ‘bout water and the six
o’clock news.” At this point Epi had increased the pace and volume of his
speech, slapping his leg with excitement.
“Kiddo, ya need some background on this alchemical hag. She was not
one a those typical crazies ya might pretend not ta see on the street corner
pushin’ a shoppin’ cart overloaded with the tin cans, plastic bags and rusty
trinkets a’a life spent in a mental hell. Nope, she was a tad more up-scale
(only in the financial sense, mind ya) and a shit load more diabolic tha’
that. She read tarot cards and cast curses fer a livin’. Failin’ investment
bankers and egocentric unrequited lovers were ‘er only patrons—only the
desperate backstabbin’ portion a society. She was no good witch a the
west; she was one a ‘em mean and nasty witches, like the one that tried ta
gobble up glucose lovin’ Hansel and Grettel. She was an evil bitch, ta put
it mildly.
“Anyway, this curse-castin’ crone had this cat. At the time, Pistis wasn’t
much ta look at; ya really had ta look deep, but when ya did, she had this
inner beauty that’s hard ta describe. But this poor ol’ feline was trapped,
imprisoned if ya will, in some kinda conjurer’s incantation, ‘cause if she
could a taken off, she would a. This ol’ cat couldn’t leave the cunt’s tomb a’
an apartment. Ya look at that cat and ya saw oppression, plain and
simple. She was a forced familiar, stolen from a lovin’ home, compelled ta’a
life in malignant darkness.”
Epi’s face became red and swollen with emotion. “Poor kitty,” he continued,
reaching for a used napkin to wipe potential tears, “poor, poor li’l kitty. She
developed a rash that stemmed from her physical and spiritual
incarceration.” He stroked the cat’s furry cheeks, and she purred lovingly
in response, nuzzled her face against Epi’s nose and curled into a ball.
“Now that skanky cauldron-stirrin’ cock-sucker finally broke. Snortin’all
them fumes from boilin’ newt’s eyes and Turk thumbs finally threw ‘er over
the edge. She musta poured over all a her spells and manuals a the black
arts and found somethin’ really rich. Whatever the shit was, she ended up
on ‘er balcony drenched in diesel and screamin’ ta heaven, hell and all a us
in-between ‘bout our insignificance compared ta ‘er omnipotence. I swear ta
ya, friend, I saw ‘er head twist three-sixty, then she started jabberin’ in
tongues. It was some kinda witchy prelude ta ‘er self-pyrofication. But I’ll tell
ya, ain’t nothin’ like a li’l self-immolation ta get a day goin’,” Epi winked. “I
still remember it like it was yest-er-day; I was held entranced by the event till
she lit the cigarette and the flames engulfed ‘er instantaneously. Poof!” He
clapped his hands, “then she lost the tiny bit a composure she had
(screamin’ and flailin’ ‘er arms ‘bout),” Epi demonstrated this process, and I
felt sorry for his neighbors who were forced by his volume to hear his
recounting, “…and I was released. I ran inta the buildin’, pushin’ through all
the cops and fire dudes and kicked in ‘er fuckin’ door. It was like I was on a
mission from God. I grabbed that cat by the scruff a her neck, and she was
emancipated from the evil hag.”
At this point in the adventure, Epi caught his breath as though he had just
raced up those three flights of stairs and saved his furry comrade. His eyes
possessed the tired but heroic glimmer of a man proud of his noble
endeavor. “Yep, I saved ol’ Pistis. She’s been with me ever since. I mean,
there was that time she got hit by the ice-cream truck, and I thought she
had traveled ta the Kitty-Elysian Fields, but that was ‘fore I truly understood
what she was all ‘bout.” He took another sip of his coffee and lit another
cigarette. “Well I had done gone an buried ol’ Pistis. Ya see, I picked up
what I thought was her lifeless carcass (in fact, I had ta use a small shovel
ta collect all a it), and I buried the damn thing with great ceremony an
sorrow. But, by the time I’d patted the earth down an shed a few tears an
come back ta my place, there she was, ol’ Pistis purrin’ away fer some food
like nothin’ ever transpired.” Again, Epi attempted to hold back his watery
emotions, but their force overcame him. “She’d come back, my meowin’
companion.”
“Ya see, she’s a magical cat. Not the magic a the ol’ smelly Paraceleus
worshipin’ bitch, but a more refined, more pure, more holy type a conjurin’.
She first arrived in this fair city in the eighteen hundreds, when the Indians
still called it the ‘Valley a Death’. Ya know, one a the head honchos a ol’
Stump Village was a guy by the name a Pettyfatale, ya’ve seen the streets
and buildin’s and shit that’s named after ‘im. Well, he was set on makin’ this
place more than just a dot on a map, but a bustlin’ modern metropolis tha’
would make ‘im rich. Along with his grandiose dreams, he brought a Jewish
accountant and part-time manservant named Hoeb. Well, ol’ Hoeb’s kin
had a long history in the Rabbinical arts, and his great-grandfather was
perhaps one a the greatest Kabalistic rabbis that the world’s ever seen.
The reason I brin’ this up is ‘cause Hoeb’s great-grandfather made this cat.
Yep, I understand why ya’re lookin’ at me that way, I didn’t believe it at first
either, but that’s right, Epi never lies,” he chuckled to himself devilishly. “Ol’
Rabbi Hokhma, Hoeb’s great-grandpappy, fashioned our much beloved
Pistis out a clay. Now, ol’ man Hokhma didn’t plan at first ta be sculptin’ a
cat. No-siree, he was hopin’ ta bringin’ his lovely little girl back from the
land a no return. Ya see, she had died a tuberculosis, this was back when
that shit would take ya out. With her death, he lost it, or ta put it more
eloquently, Elvis had left the buildin’ (if ya catch my meanin’). So, the once
wise (and sane) Hokhma, consumed by the loss a his only child ta God’s
hand, went ‘bout makin’ ‘er himself. Now, I’m not gonna go inta details a the
whole process, fer no other reason but ‘cause I don’t understand any a it,”
he licked his lips and winked, “but Hokhma acquired some magical clay, the
same shit that Adam was made out a, or somethin’ like that. He then
started moldin’ and sculptin’ and kneadin’ and wackin’ the stuff, but he
realized that there wasn’t enough ta make a physical replica a his darlin’
daughter. He must a despaired and paced the floor a his cold Prague
apartment. And then, click, a light switch must a been flipped (even though
I know they didn’t have light switches way back in the day, ‘cause hombre
was Old-School, really Old-School). Any-who, he’d decided ta make this
Kabalistic effigy in the likeness a’a cat. Yep, ‘cause his daughter loved
cats. In fact, she would rescue ‘em from the nasty, wet Prague alleys and
give ‘em love. So he fixed himself a cat. After he’d done all a his sculptin',
he said a prayer, placed both the name a his daughter and the name a
God in the cat’s mouth and then, with his rabbinical CPR trainin’, breathed
life inta the inanimate object. Presto-change-o-transmutation-abracadabra,
ya’ve got beautiful ol’ Pistis, or what she was called way back when, ya see I
renamed her; she was called Melog, but I didn’t think it reflected ‘er inner
beauty.”
Epi stretched his limbs in an effort to continue his journey through history.
He lit another cigarette, took another sip of coffee, and suddenly beat his
chest like Tarzan to build strength for the rest of journey to the present.
“Now ya see, Hokhma had another child ‘fore he finally kicked the bucket.
Melog passed through the hands a her creator’s son and then through the
hands a his son, Hoeb. Ya see, as great families often go, the blood thins
and becomes wicked and corrupt. That’s what happened in this case. By
the time all those noble, though a bit loco, Hokhma genes gotta Hoeb, they
had grown mighty fucked-up. Hoeb was a whorin’, opium-addicted, bitter,
self-indulgin’ cut-throat. Dude was fucked. And, as soon as he’d brought
Pistis ta the West Coast, she hit the ground a-runnin’. She found kind and
generous families ta stay with till that ageless and evil witch cast her spell
and the rest is history.”
The cat purred and nuzzled Epi, as if she had approved of his rendering of
the story. “Do ya want another cup-a-joe?” he asked pointing to my empty
cup and looking concerned. I shook my head and attempted to extinguish
my cigarette in one of the heaping ashtrays. “Well, I sure do,” he said
making his way to the kitchen.
“I want ta add somethin’ very important ta all a this; she’s a damn special
beast. And I only use the word beast in reference ta her physical
appearance,” he shouted. “She’s got the divine spark.”
The microwave clicked on once again. Once again, I wondered from where
he was getting his coffee.
“Like a human, but even greater than most humans. I’ll explain all that ta ya
some other time, we’ve got time.”
He sat back down in the chair with a new cup of coffee and Pistis jumped
back into his lap, curling herself into a ball and closing her eyes. “Ya know,
or I guess ya don’t know,” he continued, “that we’ve conversations.” He
nodded affirmatively. “We chatter ‘bout all sorts a things, but usually
spiritual things, and I don’t mean no Age a Aquarius crystal worshippin’ shit
either. No, I mean… yar not ready fer that. Anyway, nobody believes me,
but… let’s go down ta the café and get some real vittles. Actually, ya go
down and pick me up a burger and meet me in the shop.”
I was no longer afraid of this enigmatic and foul little man, in fact, I found
myself quite amused by him. The feeling that I had met him before, which
came upon me the previous night, was now even greater. Every gesture
that he made tickled my memory with vague recollection. Although he was
bullish and arrogant, I felt confidence in him, as though he knew me better
than I knew myself. It seemed like he was more genuine in his concern for
me than I could ever be for myself. Following his directive came naturally; I
was relieved that I had some direction, no matter how mundane it appeared.
I hoisted myself off of the hide-a-bed. My clothes, which I had slept in, were
marked with wrinkles and things acquired from spending the night in the
dirty accommodations.
“It’s right next ta the shop. Ya know where it is,” he spoke through a smile.
Don't copy any of this without the publisher's permission.
Copyright 2007, Jacob Curtis
I woke staring at the yellowed ceiling and feeling the oppressive weight of
cigarette smoke on my lungs. Vacant thoughts poured through my head: I
better get going to work; I must be late because the sun is already up;
which city am I in today? Slowly the events of the evening—the fire, the
moon, the stirring music—all trickled into my consciousness. They flowed
slowly and filled my recollection drop by drop until I remembered where I
was sleeping.
A phlegmy cough from the other room shocked me into sitting; that odd little
guitarist, Epi, was rummaging around the kitchen. A swirling gray cloud of
smoke lit by the rays of the morning sun was the beacon of his presence.
“There ya go, honey,” Epi crooned with affection. “Hope ya like yar
breakfast, Stinker; it’s lamb and rice, all organic like usual. Only the best fer
Epi’s ol’ friend.”
Naturally, without thought, I reached for an open pack of cigarettes sitting
on the coffee table and lit one. It tasted stale and bitter. “Ya’re awake,
uh? Ya want some grub? Or how ‘bout a cup-a-joe?” I then heard the
familiar click of the microwave door and its hum of work. I wondered if he
ever brewed coffee or whether he just recycled what was left in some cup
he had left neglected the week prior. He walked out of the kitchen holding
two mugs and a hotdog sandwich. “This should cure any pangs in yar
stomach,” he stated, thrusting the meal at me with pharmacological
assurance. “Wash that sucker down with a good ol’ cup-a-joe.” The coffee
spilled over the sides and onto a book as he set it on the coffee table.
“So, how did ya sleep?”
I took the sandwich from him. The cold pink dogs poked their unappetizing
heads from between the bread slices. “I guess pretty well,” I yawned. “I
mean, I don’t even remember sleeping, only closing my eyes and waking
up.”
“Good, very, very good. That’s what I like ta hear—a Lucretian rest,” he
proclaimed proudly, nodding his head as if he had some role in the
endeavor of sleep. “But now ya’re awake, right?”
“Yes,” I answered, feeling a bit anxious at his question.
“Ya positive?”
“Yes, I am positive,” I replied indignantly.
“Now ya don’t have ta get all in a tizzy, I’m just makin’ sure, ‘cause all kinds
a folks’re walkin’ ‘round like they’re all awake, but they ain’t. Anyway, how’s
the grub?”
“I’m sorry, thank you. I appreciate the food and also your generosity for
letting me sleep here last night. I’ve been feeling sort of…” I paused to
frame my words without jeopardizing myself, “I’ve been feeling a little out of
sorts, as of late, and thank you for your hospitality.”
He gave me a wink as a large, gray tabby with celadon eyes strutted from
the kitchen, hopped to the oak chair and began to lick herself. Epi watched
my eyes follow the cat. Epi’s face lit with excitement and that, now familiar,
sly smile emerged.
“A magical cat has taken up residence with yar old, eccentric frien’ Epi.” He
picked the cat up, sat down in the armchair, and placed the compliant
animal on his lap. He spoke of their meeting, and immediate recognition of
kinship, as if it was yesterday. He leaned back, relaxing his shoulders and
grinning at the opportunity of recounting the scenario. The cat appeared
less engaged, arching her back in callisthenic parabolas. “Yep, she’s a
kinetic disciple a Appolonius,” he said, pointing to the posturing animal on
his lap. “Pistis is what keeps ol’ Epi sane…”
“Oh yeah, the beginnin’,” he began, “that was quite a day. That was a day
much like yesterday, full a fire trucks, smoke and murder.” he winked. “But
that was ‘bout ten years ‘go, yep it was. That was the day the batty bitch,
who was living ‘bove the ‘Taste a Cairo’, made a life changin’ decision (and
a death decision, I’d like ta add). Yep, that loony took a gallon a diesel and
made herself inta a molotov cocktail. The whole damn thing was quite a
hootenanny. She chose ta incinerate herself on her fourth-story balcony.
Everybody showed up fer the spectacle, ‘seemed like the whole damn city
came ta watch. First, ya had the people that were just walkin’ by, then ya
had all the cops, followin’ them ya got both the media and the fire trucks.
The waves a spectators built until the fuckin’ melodrama crescendoed with
the evil witch lightin’ a cigarette and poof, it was then ‘bout water and the six
o’clock news.” At this point Epi had increased the pace and volume of his
speech, slapping his leg with excitement.
“Kiddo, ya need some background on this alchemical hag. She was not
one a those typical crazies ya might pretend not ta see on the street corner
pushin’ a shoppin’ cart overloaded with the tin cans, plastic bags and rusty
trinkets a’a life spent in a mental hell. Nope, she was a tad more up-scale
(only in the financial sense, mind ya) and a shit load more diabolic tha’
that. She read tarot cards and cast curses fer a livin’. Failin’ investment
bankers and egocentric unrequited lovers were ‘er only patrons—only the
desperate backstabbin’ portion a society. She was no good witch a the
west; she was one a ‘em mean and nasty witches, like the one that tried ta
gobble up glucose lovin’ Hansel and Grettel. She was an evil bitch, ta put
it mildly.
“Anyway, this curse-castin’ crone had this cat. At the time, Pistis wasn’t
much ta look at; ya really had ta look deep, but when ya did, she had this
inner beauty that’s hard ta describe. But this poor ol’ feline was trapped,
imprisoned if ya will, in some kinda conjurer’s incantation, ‘cause if she
could a taken off, she would a. This ol’ cat couldn’t leave the cunt’s tomb a’
an apartment. Ya look at that cat and ya saw oppression, plain and
simple. She was a forced familiar, stolen from a lovin’ home, compelled ta’a
life in malignant darkness.”
Epi’s face became red and swollen with emotion. “Poor kitty,” he continued,
reaching for a used napkin to wipe potential tears, “poor, poor li’l kitty. She
developed a rash that stemmed from her physical and spiritual
incarceration.” He stroked the cat’s furry cheeks, and she purred lovingly
in response, nuzzled her face against Epi’s nose and curled into a ball.
“Now that skanky cauldron-stirrin’ cock-sucker finally broke. Snortin’all
them fumes from boilin’ newt’s eyes and Turk thumbs finally threw ‘er over
the edge. She musta poured over all a her spells and manuals a the black
arts and found somethin’ really rich. Whatever the shit was, she ended up
on ‘er balcony drenched in diesel and screamin’ ta heaven, hell and all a us
in-between ‘bout our insignificance compared ta ‘er omnipotence. I swear ta
ya, friend, I saw ‘er head twist three-sixty, then she started jabberin’ in
tongues. It was some kinda witchy prelude ta ‘er self-pyrofication. But I’ll tell
ya, ain’t nothin’ like a li’l self-immolation ta get a day goin’,” Epi winked. “I
still remember it like it was yest-er-day; I was held entranced by the event till
she lit the cigarette and the flames engulfed ‘er instantaneously. Poof!” He
clapped his hands, “then she lost the tiny bit a composure she had
(screamin’ and flailin’ ‘er arms ‘bout),” Epi demonstrated this process, and I
felt sorry for his neighbors who were forced by his volume to hear his
recounting, “…and I was released. I ran inta the buildin’, pushin’ through all
the cops and fire dudes and kicked in ‘er fuckin’ door. It was like I was on a
mission from God. I grabbed that cat by the scruff a her neck, and she was
emancipated from the evil hag.”
At this point in the adventure, Epi caught his breath as though he had just
raced up those three flights of stairs and saved his furry comrade. His eyes
possessed the tired but heroic glimmer of a man proud of his noble
endeavor. “Yep, I saved ol’ Pistis. She’s been with me ever since. I mean,
there was that time she got hit by the ice-cream truck, and I thought she
had traveled ta the Kitty-Elysian Fields, but that was ‘fore I truly understood
what she was all ‘bout.” He took another sip of his coffee and lit another
cigarette. “Well I had done gone an buried ol’ Pistis. Ya see, I picked up
what I thought was her lifeless carcass (in fact, I had ta use a small shovel
ta collect all a it), and I buried the damn thing with great ceremony an
sorrow. But, by the time I’d patted the earth down an shed a few tears an
come back ta my place, there she was, ol’ Pistis purrin’ away fer some food
like nothin’ ever transpired.” Again, Epi attempted to hold back his watery
emotions, but their force overcame him. “She’d come back, my meowin’
companion.”
“Ya see, she’s a magical cat. Not the magic a the ol’ smelly Paraceleus
worshipin’ bitch, but a more refined, more pure, more holy type a conjurin’.
She first arrived in this fair city in the eighteen hundreds, when the Indians
still called it the ‘Valley a Death’. Ya know, one a the head honchos a ol’
Stump Village was a guy by the name a Pettyfatale, ya’ve seen the streets
and buildin’s and shit that’s named after ‘im. Well, he was set on makin’ this
place more than just a dot on a map, but a bustlin’ modern metropolis tha’
would make ‘im rich. Along with his grandiose dreams, he brought a Jewish
accountant and part-time manservant named Hoeb. Well, ol’ Hoeb’s kin
had a long history in the Rabbinical arts, and his great-grandfather was
perhaps one a the greatest Kabalistic rabbis that the world’s ever seen.
The reason I brin’ this up is ‘cause Hoeb’s great-grandfather made this cat.
Yep, I understand why ya’re lookin’ at me that way, I didn’t believe it at first
either, but that’s right, Epi never lies,” he chuckled to himself devilishly. “Ol’
Rabbi Hokhma, Hoeb’s great-grandpappy, fashioned our much beloved
Pistis out a clay. Now, ol’ man Hokhma didn’t plan at first ta be sculptin’ a
cat. No-siree, he was hopin’ ta bringin’ his lovely little girl back from the
land a no return. Ya see, she had died a tuberculosis, this was back when
that shit would take ya out. With her death, he lost it, or ta put it more
eloquently, Elvis had left the buildin’ (if ya catch my meanin’). So, the once
wise (and sane) Hokhma, consumed by the loss a his only child ta God’s
hand, went ‘bout makin’ ‘er himself. Now, I’m not gonna go inta details a the
whole process, fer no other reason but ‘cause I don’t understand any a it,”
he licked his lips and winked, “but Hokhma acquired some magical clay, the
same shit that Adam was made out a, or somethin’ like that. He then
started moldin’ and sculptin’ and kneadin’ and wackin’ the stuff, but he
realized that there wasn’t enough ta make a physical replica a his darlin’
daughter. He must a despaired and paced the floor a his cold Prague
apartment. And then, click, a light switch must a been flipped (even though
I know they didn’t have light switches way back in the day, ‘cause hombre
was Old-School, really Old-School). Any-who, he’d decided ta make this
Kabalistic effigy in the likeness a’a cat. Yep, ‘cause his daughter loved
cats. In fact, she would rescue ‘em from the nasty, wet Prague alleys and
give ‘em love. So he fixed himself a cat. After he’d done all a his sculptin',
he said a prayer, placed both the name a his daughter and the name a
God in the cat’s mouth and then, with his rabbinical CPR trainin’, breathed
life inta the inanimate object. Presto-change-o-transmutation-abracadabra,
ya’ve got beautiful ol’ Pistis, or what she was called way back when, ya see I
renamed her; she was called Melog, but I didn’t think it reflected ‘er inner
beauty.”
Epi stretched his limbs in an effort to continue his journey through history.
He lit another cigarette, took another sip of coffee, and suddenly beat his
chest like Tarzan to build strength for the rest of journey to the present.
“Now ya see, Hokhma had another child ‘fore he finally kicked the bucket.
Melog passed through the hands a her creator’s son and then through the
hands a his son, Hoeb. Ya see, as great families often go, the blood thins
and becomes wicked and corrupt. That’s what happened in this case. By
the time all those noble, though a bit loco, Hokhma genes gotta Hoeb, they
had grown mighty fucked-up. Hoeb was a whorin’, opium-addicted, bitter,
self-indulgin’ cut-throat. Dude was fucked. And, as soon as he’d brought
Pistis ta the West Coast, she hit the ground a-runnin’. She found kind and
generous families ta stay with till that ageless and evil witch cast her spell
and the rest is history.”
The cat purred and nuzzled Epi, as if she had approved of his rendering of
the story. “Do ya want another cup-a-joe?” he asked pointing to my empty
cup and looking concerned. I shook my head and attempted to extinguish
my cigarette in one of the heaping ashtrays. “Well, I sure do,” he said
making his way to the kitchen.
“I want ta add somethin’ very important ta all a this; she’s a damn special
beast. And I only use the word beast in reference ta her physical
appearance,” he shouted. “She’s got the divine spark.”
The microwave clicked on once again. Once again, I wondered from where
he was getting his coffee.
“Like a human, but even greater than most humans. I’ll explain all that ta ya
some other time, we’ve got time.”
He sat back down in the chair with a new cup of coffee and Pistis jumped
back into his lap, curling herself into a ball and closing her eyes. “Ya know,
or I guess ya don’t know,” he continued, “that we’ve conversations.” He
nodded affirmatively. “We chatter ‘bout all sorts a things, but usually
spiritual things, and I don’t mean no Age a Aquarius crystal worshippin’ shit
either. No, I mean… yar not ready fer that. Anyway, nobody believes me,
but… let’s go down ta the café and get some real vittles. Actually, ya go
down and pick me up a burger and meet me in the shop.”
I was no longer afraid of this enigmatic and foul little man, in fact, I found
myself quite amused by him. The feeling that I had met him before, which
came upon me the previous night, was now even greater. Every gesture
that he made tickled my memory with vague recollection. Although he was
bullish and arrogant, I felt confidence in him, as though he knew me better
than I knew myself. It seemed like he was more genuine in his concern for
me than I could ever be for myself. Following his directive came naturally; I
was relieved that I had some direction, no matter how mundane it appeared.
I hoisted myself off of the hide-a-bed. My clothes, which I had slept in, were
marked with wrinkles and things acquired from spending the night in the
dirty accommodations.
“It’s right next ta the shop. Ya know where it is,” he spoke through a smile.
Don't copy any of this without the publisher's permission.
Copyright 2007, Jacob Curtis
All rights reserved for the
The Song Itself A Gnostic
Remembrance, Copyright
2007, Jacob Curtis
The Song Itself A Gnostic
Remembrance, Copyright
2007, Jacob Curtis