Thursday, September 26, 2013

Slippy is the New Slippy

The cat said he'd blog the cat who is named Luco but he takes forever because he says he's been working through his issues which means I don't know that he stares at the wall for hours?

He also hides in boxes and won't come out of the laundry room and he cries in the middle of the night I can hear him from where I sleep in the dogs' jail for dogs the crate no more soft bed no more poly-fiber pillow only the heat of Lucy my Scarecrow to soften my indignity.

And how far has your noble Slipper fallen me that's who I mean?

Consider the fall we fall in love we fall down we fall for it we are fallen there is the original fall the fall of everyone and we fall asleep.

When I go to sleep in my dogs' jail dogs' bed I am me I am Slippy-the-me-that-I-am but who oh who am I upon waking how to be sure this Slippy is that Slippy from before?

Whence does he go whence do I go whence is better sounding than where but do I use it correctly? Judiciously?

I've been reading Alan Watts and he's all meditation and reality he's all the infinite within us he's all there is no difference between environment and organism there is no self there is no self there is no self.

I meditate but it confuses me because who is this self that thinks it must be me where does it come from and where does the question come from who thinks of a thing like that who feels like they are falling with me falling into an abyss a never-ending plummeting the air warm around us filling us our hearts our minds.

Which and this means Slippy is what?

Did I dream myself? Do I dream still?

Slippy is the me of the moment I wake up? The smell and the scratch and the burning throat of me?

First before I wanted to say I'd be sad if Slippy was not Slippy but something else yet then when I think about it more then my vision gets funny and the world gets bigger and smaller and then bigger again and I feel my whiskers poking into the air it is divine it is divine and I feel the wet behind my eyes and the softness of my nose my ears and they are velvet I sink a little deeper a little deeper and deeper still there is something more to me than me.

I think so anyway. What oh what do I know not much that's true. I don't even know why Luco wouldn't blog wouldn't let me on here wouldn't even log on Lucy says midlife crisis maybe but he is old older way older than me like an ancient being he was alive when there were feathered dinosaurs  lumbering around he's paleolithic I mean which is great and grand but means he can't be having a midlife crisis it must be something else.

Maybe he's having an existential crisis. Or maybe that was me. Whichever Slippy I am right now can't remember how to fold back into truth into reality and truth is probably really pulpy like the brilliance of a mango orange and sweet in my mouth crushed to juice and running down my face the juice sugar sticky licking it rolling around into the grass greener than the color more than a placeholder for the thing - the thing itself.

And me and me and me.


  1. I''m beginning to like hearing from Slippy. This is brilliant--and yet sounds just like Slippy.