Cat and I are like intertwining jinn-jang bugs – this is Tao – and it can't be forgotten that every cat, gato in Spanish, contains in itself three letters from Tao, where g is as if a hole left in ponchos by Indian women for the soul not to become a prisoner of the fabric. [translation mine]
Julio Cortazar "Last Round (The Conversion of Theodor W. Adorno)"
Soaked in a newspaper,
brought to me, as always, by local postman, a nice older man with a
big hackneyed by time bag, and sipping tepid, yet still strong,
coffee, I heard the meowing that, for that exact moment, I didn't
realize it would accompany me for the rest of my days. I've ignored
it at first, thinking it was one of my neighbour's tomcat preparing
for heating or being severely pecked by a stronger than itself bird.
Not paying much attention to this sudden cat mourning I've returned
to my morning routines: reading, teeth washing, phone calls to close,
or less close, friends, some time at my typewriter that begun to
cover with thicker and thicker dust – the inspiration has left me
recently, I wasn't able to flood the paper with a single real
sentence, only word clusters, letters resembling prison breakers –
and, finally, putting my favourite flannel shirt – inseparable
comrade of my forest walks, often lasting for the rest of my day.
That particular day was different, though.
