You know - the 80's weren't so bad. Any decade that can produce a perfect pop song like 'Poison Arrow' by ABC or 'Mirror In The Bathroom' by the Beat, never mind The Clash 'Should I Stay Or Should I Go' (my anthem) can't be a total loss. My thirties weren't so terrible. I had a crazy amount of sex with women most of whom I can't remember too well, and those that I do remember, I have been trying to apologise to. I had two books of photography published, I was going to be a pretty big seller for publishers who threw parties for me, my mum and dad were still alive sniping at each other from afar, I held Berta in my arms for a few short months in 1982, fucking her in her bedroom with the light streaming in, until my familiar 'don't come any nearer' voice reared in my head and bucked the good feelings. After leaving her house in West London I went out looking for graffiti to photograph and felt whole again. When she was dying just a few short weeks ago, I so wanted to clamber on to the cot in her makeshift bedroom on the ground floor and wrap her like a blanket. This battle rages on. I look like a girl though it has been said that when I really look at someone they felt that they were being sized up by a 16 year old boy. A nice boy. With blue eyes. Berta knew that boy. And her nearness to the truth brought out the mean kid. That's my battle. So, sadness is a pretty familiar stream of consciousness for me. Don't touch me, just don't freakin' try it, ok? I like feeling sad. I love crying. It is cleansing, it is lubricant, it makes everything look fresher, brighter, more sunshine and less grey. You don't have to read this. I guess I don't have to write it. Yeah, I do.
Last week I was cruising around with Aida and a friend called her and asked advice about some tiny feral kittens living in a beaten up old car which was due to be towed away on Monday - kittens n' all. We headed to Richmond and found two tiny beasts hiding under the front seats of the trashed Datsun. A few minutes of hide and seek later we had the hissing, scratching tabby by the scruff and the little feisty black kitten was biting down hard on Aida's index finger, and as she dropped it, it sped through the open door and into the bushes. You had to laugh. Really. We set traps and left to tend to the little one who was now hiding fearfully in a cat crate. When we went back that evening, a surprisingly calm mama cat sat in the trap. Until we moved her and the rage of a fiery feral uncoiled as she spat and rushed at the metal trap. I love feral cats, I honestly do. A few days later, after she was spayed and recovered, I took her back to the parking lot where she had come from and let her go. On Friday I went back to try and trap the black kitten, I set two traps and took my dogs for a hike in the hills overlooking the industrial city and docks of Richmond, watched the freeways move like ants, heard the freight train lumbering to a halt at a crossing, turned to face the bay and feel the summer breeze on my face and loved my dogs more than I have ever loved them, missed Oscar and thought of Berta and her cats Lily and Dracula and Bluebell, and kicked dusty dirt down the trail as I headed down the hill, back to the car to go back to where the traps were. As I passed the huge water storage container in the park I thought of the white labradoodle I had trapped right there with Karen - after the dog had been missing for 6 months.
I got back to the traps - untouched by even a curious cat paw. Then I looked over to my left, my dogs quietly peeking out of the windows of my car. Two small black kittens were playing like only kittens can - leaping, pouncing, ambushing, and next to them quietly, calmly was their recently spayed mother washing herself fastidiously, oblivious to my contented presence watching them. I packed up the traps, smiled at the little family scene and left.
There are days I wonder why I feel so compelled to go through this inner turmoil with such a public vengeance, there are times I contemplate the wisdom of hanging myself out with the dirty laundry, and I end up with the same answer. This blog gives me some sort of courage, I think. It's as if it's outside the walls, the light is piercing it and it feels safe. Strange huh. But the alternative is sitting in that chair that is spinning while the walls close in, and the walls are covered with sharp blades that come nearer with every turn of the chair. For me, who had nightmares of such breathtaking violence almost every night until one day in 2005, the public revelations are nothing! As Aida would say - oh, how we laugh.
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