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Friday, September 29, 2017
The witches cat-
Theres a tiny tiger cat in Mexico who used to live with a witch. A Bruja. She ballooned with life these last few weeks. I looked ahead to joy of tiny kitty feet and razor sharp teeth and the many joys of sharing a life with purry pusses, plural. I have been having the most interesting conversations with the three street cats who sleep in my house when it is raining. They are mostly happy to be out of the elements and eating. On their best behavior. Like when you visit you grandmother. On point. But every now and then, the little onebruja's gatito gets a look. Cat focus, staring at something we humans cannot see. Different wavelengths of energy, imperceptable to mere humans. This is the trait that made the Egyptians hold kitties in such high esyeem. All you have to do is take the time to talk to your cat in your dreams. They will tell you.
In the daytime cats mostly want to talk to you about food and how pretty they are. Those are 'safe' topics for them to speak to you about. Other topics can lead to trouble with the authorities, remember Salem? Cats do. It is not so long ago, in cat years, that 'the man' hunted them and their allies. So they are naturally reticent. The way my cat explains it, they had a lot of fun running the world from the front, now they're going to mostly sit back and observe. Pull strings from behind the curtain, cue fireballs, “the Great and Powerful Kitty of Oz!.
Cats are big on long term plans. Did you know that both the the great wall of china and the pyramids were cat entertainment projects? Watch the special on CatTv, the bored kitty network. The special explains the relationship between alpha cats and their human robots. All cats have the potential to be alphas, but humans often do not want to give up the comtrol or are too stupid to learn the special dream cat language that is necessary for advanced cat craft. Humans call it witchcraft, but that is species bias. Anyone who owns a cat knows who runs the show. Ask a scientist if you do not believe me. There is a component in cat urine which compels humans to feed cats and that element in the cat urine is the gateway drug to full mind control, like you see with the cat that lives on the President of the United States head. Now it starts to make sense, doesn't it?
Now that orange ball of fur has an extreme sense of humor. Cat humor, cruel and vicious. The cat on Trump's head had a bad time in a previous life in Mexico.
You can have a fine and loving relationship with countless kitties and never know that they are magical portals at night. The sun does something to their telepathic connection is my understanding. If a cat is perched on your head however, or hidden in a witches hat, say, there is no limit to the catmunication. All witches hats are designed for a cat comfort. Didn't you ever see an architectual rendering cutaway view? What is your level of knowledge? Do I really have to explain this all in detail to you or can you keep up?
I am just learning to communicate with them now. It is eaasier now due to the vibrational frequency of the sun, is the way the cat explained it to my dumb human brain. Cats can be very impatient. They would rather nap. They are running things. Maybe after a century of napping humans will wake up to the glory of cat service. No skin off of the kitty overlords nose. in terms I understand. Cats use terms like magic and purrception but our human brains have been taught to reject the magic in the world, even as this magic binds us in it's invisible chains of repeated sounds. Hypnosis.
Now that we are in an era of cat dominance again, I have been chosen to find story tellers to expLain the cat message of interdimensional harmony. With a cat in the highest office in the country it is safe to come out of hiding. Did you really believe that was a combover? It's a tiny orange kitty, the cousin, or prima of my little Mexican witches kitty. The wall is being put up because the kitties are bored and want to play and run and amuse themselves by sitting on the highest objest around that their human minions are busily constucting fo them. Cats are big on keeping their humans busy. Mine has me typing this for her as well as stroking and scratching and removing her from the kopulgd keyboard when she is bored. Cats get bored easily, even when things are going exactly their way. Like over-caffienated English teachers who can't stop nudging their kids who are finally writing.
Days when I shed blood please the sun. the cat acts as an intermediary, a cosmic sun vibe pimp. Your sunburn is your pennance...find and relace gun with gat ot gatitto..same with duck for dog and YEAH THATS IT MY MISSION N LIFE YEA BABY!!!!!
REPLACE GANGSTERS WITH KITTENS OH EFFING YEA.....
2NF CAT STORE EEE
The rockstars cat now lives in Wyomissing. She had to be rescued from my old Philadelphia apartment when my brother was thrown in jail. My other brother cut through the security bars on a ladder. I was already in Mexico at that time. This cat followed my sister Angel home. It was eating pizza out of a frat house dumpster when Angel spied it and talked to it soothingly. The cat played coy for a bit. Cats love to toy with the world. Hows that song go, “The world is a Cat Toy”? Cats just know. Cats choose you. This pregnant tiny thing saw Angel and used her to get her kitten into my parents barn where she feasts on squirrels and hisses at strangers. A watch cat. Sometimes cats choose you to torment you, sometimes they choose you to love you. Don't think for a second that your cat is accidently doing anything. Cats are running this, and have been since way before the Egyptians and their laws that no one should fuck with cats under penalty of death. Angel had asked me to keep the kitty because her rock star paramour was asthmatic and having trouble with the cute little kitty that loved to sleep on his chest. I needed company. Now mama lives in the good part of wyomissing and Barney of course is the king of the barn. Barney is huge.
Currently I am trying to counsel the little furry terrorist that lives with me. Shes bi-polar I think, one moment licking your calf and the next jabbing like a flyweight boxer, flailing at your leg with long hooks to the body, left-right-left, hard enough to draw blood. That's her job. Make sure the gringo bleeds. It is a variation of the noontime blood sacrifice for the thristy local gods. She has served the local gods for millenia in one form or another. They are still here, but less thirsty, it's about respect. Symbolism. Fuck that wine, our Mexican gods demand the real stuff. High test. So somehow I usually wind up bleeding every day in Mexico. Gardening, swimming, housecleaning. I even managed to open up my thumb doing my laundry the other day. The clotheslines they have here are multicolord plastic strands, twisted together. You do not need clothes pins as you simply make a space between the strands for a corner of you garment and poke it through the hole. Sometimes the tension on the line makes this a struggle and if you keep your thumbnails like I do they can be used to open up gashes. Or cut yourself doing laundry. I always keep the thumbnails ready for action because you never know. I am one mangled Spanish verb away from a street fight with one of the multitudes of street drunks that line the sidewalks. There is a really beautiful tradition here that the local women have of kicking their drunken men to the curb. Literally. You are drunk, get out. It is a rare day when I do not see a drunk kicked out of his house and sleeping it off in the shade on the sidewalk outside HER house. When I first moved here I took pictures and put them on one of my blogs. Then I noticed that it happens every day and isn't that special. It's just one way of dealing with the heat.
My Mexican kitty tells me she was once incarnated as an Aztec priestess' cat. She purrs when I bleed. She has eyes like you see on some exotic women in certain corners of the universe. The ones that always seduced James T. Kirk. There is also, obviously, a lizard behind her eyes from time to time. Like when I bleed. Quetzacatal. Usually her eyes are round, but when the blood starts flowing her eyes change to those of a snake and get vertical, with slits, changing from their normal purply hue to a demonic yellow. It is freaky, but the cat chose me. And she is a cute little purry puss, most of the time. Unless she is trying to steer my dreams. Which is also kind of fun, but cat dreams are dark, violent and blood drenched. Or really sexy. Or both.
Thats the charm of cats, you never know if in their previous incarnation they served darkness or light. They sometimes play the long game with you, enjoying your exquisite torture as they feed on your pain. But my current kitty companion is a reformed evil kitty, although the promise she made to darkness still requires she participate in daily bloodletting. A promise is a promise and when you choose a life partner you can't decide you only like ninety-five percent of her kitty cuteness. Like Sinatra sang, “..all or nothing at all, half a cat has never appealed to me.” and besides the blood letting is just a tast these days. Which is a relief. Having to have my beating heart ripped from my chest and held to the sky would probably ruin the weekend for me. But gee-whiz, golly, wow, that is still a pretty neat religion there. I will grant you that the muslims who wait to circumsize their kids until the kids can talk is a pretty interesting form of worship. Just yeaterday I had a National Geographic picture out of a tiny blond Turkish boy, terrified, crying and covered in Lira. He was holding his weiner though hs striped blue and white pants. I thought the money was a nice touch. Teach the kids early that money is pain is blood and fear. I may use that picture for a book cover. Maybe go to Turkey with my dad and try to find the kid and ask him how things are. Thats a book proposal right there, and it should be higher up in this text, but fuck it. I am not a professional writer. I write for fun.
Hands down the coolest religious rite I have heard of is the Mayan heart jawn. The incision was made just. below the rib cage with a razor sharp, highly polished obsidian blade. A black gleaming instrument flashing in the noonday sun. The priest would hold it up to the crowd who would roar like they do a a NFL game when the death machines fly over head. Same concept, really. Look to the sky and see the feathered serpent circling Texas Stadium! Hey look up at the death gods! They want blood, Let's have a big round of applause for these F-16's who are on their way to patrol the border and blast some immigrants into bloody pulp. USA USA. What ceremony! Brandishing the blade, the crowd roars before and as the priest is cutting a hand sized hole, then plunging his hand under your rib cage, grabbing your heart for one beat and then and ripping it out to before the next to show you and the crowd the your last ever heart beat. Those guys sure had a great grip. And it was quite an honor to be the featured sacrifice. You lived like a king for a year and went to lots of parties. The mass deaths of prisoners when the drought came were not as full of ceremony. Those deaths were a numbers thing as the gods were clearly displeased, Chac Mool, rain god is thirsty, slake me baby slake me, yeah that's it.
But my kitty is a reformed black cat. In this incarnation she has a bib of white on her tiny tiger coat. The bib of white symbolizes to other cats that she is trying to work for the forces of light this time and the black tiger stripes say she used to be a bad girl. We have an understanding. She is a purry puss and the founding member of the too cool kitty club. Too cool for you, to cool for school, too cool for Motul, but trapped here. Break the Motul bubble with the alien language of English. Plan to see the world outside your village. Or don't. I'm good. My hammock is right there and it's too hot for English, ain't it?