As the years stand still… they babble.
Incessantly.
Text messages and
emails and voices into
little devices stuck in
their ears and blogs
and twitters and
facebooks and youtubes
and newscasts and talk
shows and press
conferences and
chit-chatter as they
walk in the streets and
shop in stores and
eat&drink, as they
chatteringly demystify
intimacy by making sex
not love.
They babble, hardly hear, barely listen, remember little.
From the Age of
Elegance to the Age of
Reason to the Age of
Invention to the Age of
whatever the 20th
century was to the Age
of Babble.
Only the born-deaf
among us stay ahead of
the struggle to be free
in their own privacy.
Only they can truly read. Only Helen Keller understood life in the present, what Siddhartha meant by: "those who live in the past have no future and those who live in the future do not live."
And then there are the
arts. Films and
television series with
scripts of babbling
dialogue, operas and
poetry with
babblelonian
librettos...
Ah, but I babble. Sorry.
So… babbling
on… I cannot
remember one day of my
life in which I did not
interact with an
animal, usually a pet.
A pet, pet…
what a word, what a
gratuitous,
self-hubris-licking
word. Humans, as
self-proclaimed
guardians of animals,
eat many of them,
murder many others and
project their fantasies
and neuroses on other
cohabiting creatures in
this melancholy
biosphere.
I have always had cats,
and many dogs, and
birds and fish. As
I've whispered
elsewhere, cats
dismissively tolerate
their keepers. Keepers
tolerate their dogs and
dogs whirl in circles
chasing their tails as
if it is a talisman to
a better life.
Birds in cages: that
eventually flooded me
with regret. I could no
longer keep them and
they didn't want to
be kept. Birds want to
fly.
Fish in tanks: When my
guardianship reached 11
breeding tanks and
three large display
tanks with elaborate
gardens of aquatic
plants, I realized that
fish were aware of
their environments and
unrelentingly neurotic
as they swam from glass
wall to glass wall.
Neurotic… all
indoor pets and some
outdoor as well are
severely neurotic. All
animals evolved with
their individual drives
and needs to fulfill
them. Birds do not
thrive with much
pleasure in a cage.
Fish become someone
insane in aquariums.
Dogs suffer from the
neurosis of
domesticity. And cats?
Their minds become
invisible when they are
confined indoors.
A Scene Without Babble
INT-Bedroom: 6:00am
The sun has yet to
rise. It's quiet
and dawn gray. Only the
sounds of birds. MOI
lies in a Prosecco fog,
sprawled on a bed, feet
pushed into the
pillows, head hanging
over the bottom edge
close to an open
terrace door.
INT-Bedroom: 6:05am
A blurry shadow
whooshes past MOI's
head. It wakes him. He
rolls over to see what
breezed by him. Down at
the center of the
white-tiled floor is a
cat, hunkered down with
something fuzzy in its
mouth.
INT-Bedroom: 6:07am
MOI rolls further and
falls off the bed on to
the floor. The cat does
not move. MOI slowly
crawls over to him. He
sees the something
fuzzy in the cat's
mouth. It's a bird,
a small, brown,
black-striped
finch-like bird with a
distinct white stripe
on its head. MOI grabs
the cat. The cat
doesn't move. MOI
spins him around and
the cat drops the bird.
It lies there. No
blood, but it seems to
be dead.
INT-Bedroom: 6:08am
MOI picks up the bird,
cupped in his hands and
heads for the terrace
door.
EXT-Terrace: 6:09am
MOI stands at the
terrace railing looking
at the bird. He reaches
around the security
screen and gently
places the bird on the
floor of the terrace
next to his.
EXT-Terrace: 6:10am
The cat comes on to the
terrace and sits
upright next to MOI.
Both stare through the
security screen at the
lifeless little bird.
Suddenly, the bird
opens an eye, shakes
its head, pops up on to
its feet, bristles its
feathers and flies to
the terrace railing.
The two watch it with
amazement as the bird
continues to preen
itself. Then it chirps
twice and flies away.
INT-Bedroom: 6:20am
The outside morning
light is brighter. MOI
again lies sprawled on
the bed, feet pushed
into the pillows, head
hanging over the bottom
edge close to an open
terrace door.
A blurry shadow
whooshes past MOI's
head. It wakes him. He
rolls over. Down at the
center of the floor is
the cat, again hunkered
down with something
fuzzy in his mouth.
MOI rolls further and
falls off the bed on to
the floor. The cat does
not move. MOI crawls
over to him. He sees
the something fuzzy in
the cat's mouth.
It's the bird. MOI
grabs the cat. The cat
doesn't move. MOI
spins him around and
the cat drops the bird.
It just lies there.
Morbidly still. No
blood.
EXT-Terrace: 6:22am
The cat sits next to
MOI who reaches around
the security screen and
places the bird on the
other terrace floor.
Again, after a moment,
the bird opens an eye,
shakes its head, pops
up on to its feet,
bristles its feathers
and flies to the
terrace railing. The
two watch it with
amazement as the bird
continues to preen
itself. Then it chirps
twice and flies away.
INT-Bedroom: 6:32am
The sun is beginning to
rise. MOI is lying
curled up in the center
of the bed. He opens
his eyes and looks at
the floor. The cat is
not there. He turns
toward the open terrace
door and sees the cat
sitting upright in the
rising sunlight. He
sees a small shadow
popping along the
terrace railing. He
jumps out of bed.
EXT-Terrace: 6:34am
The cat is sitting
upright in the warm
sunlight. The shadow on
the railing is the
little bird. It hops
along the railing from
side to side. The cat
only moves its eyes.
INT-Bedroom: 6:44am
MOI is asleep. Through
the open terrace door
the cat is seen curled
up and asleep in the
sun. After a moment,
the little bird appears
on the railing. The cat
looks up. The bird
scratches itself, looks
at the cat with one
eye. They stare at each
other for a long
moment. And it flies
away.
FADE TO BLACK [Based On A True Story]
There are many truths
in true stories. And
there is always
memory-smoothing hope.
No, I didn't take
any photos. I was a
photographer by trade
in another lifetime and
I used to always carry
a camera with me on my
travels, at events,
encounters, affaires.
I found it to be existensz interruptus.
To photograph is to
voyeur, to spectate,
not to participate, not
to experience.
I stopped it.
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