Thursday, October 9, 2003

This isn't done yet. I'm working on it right now.

Mood: Annoyed.
Music: Amorphis-Grief Stricken Heart

"Pourage."
I came to the place by just wandering there. Yes, I did. It was a tucked in a little corner, hidden by the tall mouthes of many trees that concealed it like clothes on some haggard man. The place even smelled like some haggard man; it wore its cheap after shave, even smelled as sweaty and lipid; it had this strange semblance to it, it was too calm and smelt too strong of nothing. It felt bizarre in a not so bizarre way, but more in a kind of distant, lingering way.

I felt curious at the sight of the little shack. Thought it might be some love shack where people had gotten hitched. Maybe even some kind of special outpost, supplying many needed necessities to any approaching stranger. This was all well in guessing, and since I'm such a curious cat myself, I stood a long time outside of it, just examining every little mundane aspect of the place. It was one of the most fun things to do, you know—just stand there, try to guess what I'd find inside. Yes, just really fun. Like playing spin the bottle and kissing someone's lips; —it was just a game, and even as risky as it might be inside, or lucrative as it might be in there, or even as perilous, I did not care. You know, curious cats like me don't care. Instead, we play with something. Play with it till we have to scratch to get away.

The little shack looked pretty tight from the outside. Most of it was in shadows because of the trees cutting off the sun. It kind of gave the shack an uneven, hidden feeling, that sun painting it only in little dots and sheets. Certainly wasn't lucid enough to catch every little detail, but still. By moving even closer to the shack, looking at its wood and all, I was able to see it wasn't in too bad condition, like it'd been furnished by some pretty high-end construction man.

My guesses were all now in the stars, mostly. I didn't have a clue. It was like just looking at some block of text in some verbose story, or something, you know—you couldn't really see if it was great or anything by seeing all those long, detailed words. First you actually have to go inside the sentences, through the entire thing, before you really know what 's good. Just seeing the bare outside really showed me nothing.

Still being the curious cat, I stood there a while longer, my hand on my skinny chin, just wondering what in bejesus I'd find in there. Yet my guess was as good as any, and I knew this. So, with slow, fastidious steps, I set my way to finally going into the shack, my mind not set on any certain thing.

The door into the shack itself was interesting. It seemed to have some claw marks of some kind on it, and was somewhat heavy to open to my surprise. But curious cats are tricksy, and I got my way in easy enough by my own provincial methods. Inside, the place's lights were off, except for a window sitting in the corner of this first really small room I came in to. The light of this window was mostly effaced and servile due to the trees, with their open mouthes, eating away at most of the light.

When I first stepped in, I sort of braced myself. I don't really want to admit it, but yeah, I was scared. But not really scared, either. More like timid, or timorous, whatever's to your liking. Me, I'm a curious cat; we don't do like that, instead we keep playing till we have to scratch to get away, like I said earlier. So I was scared...but timid more than anything. Come on, it was dark in there. Wouldn't you be scared? Well, anyway, after feeling about in the place for a bit, just clawing for the light switch, my finger finally flicked it on on its own a I ran my hand by it due to luck.

The place lit up, and my eyes almost fell out of their sockets just trying to adjust. They had some really bright lights in there, way too bright. I don't know if it's true or not, but I think the longer you use a light bulb, as it gets older and older, it gets dimmer and dimmer. So I think the reason the lights were so bright is because they hadn't been used much for whatever reason. But you know, whatever. They might have just had them wired some "special" way, who knows really. All that mattered was I'd finally gotten the accursed lights on, and I could finally see around the little room I was in.

It was a kitchen. There were shiny pots and pans dotted around, an oven that looked pretty old and used often, a fridge, a table, some other things. You know, the usual. Nothing really looked too out of place or anything. Regular kitchen for all I could see. Then I finally looked closer at the table, though. Saw what was on it.

Porage. I couldn't believe it, either. Three bowls. Three of em, sitting there just steaming and irascible and be-a-u-tiful. Yeah, I was really hungry. I'd been walking for about four hours in the woods for no reason, you know, it's something I just liked to do. Really made me in touch with nature, so to say. Not to mention it was good on my figure. This stuff—pourage—wasn't bad for your figure at all, unlike fries or anything fried. This was pourage. You might say, "What about the Atkins Diet," but I say that's completely a waste of time, as well as space. Carbs are what make a curious cat have the energy to be curious, and without that, there'd be no curious cat.

So as I said, I was hungry as a pig. Not that I am one or anything, you know, but I was just that hungry. In fact, I have a really hot body, even have a girlfriend. She says I have nice love handles, too. And nice abs. Guess walking gives you that. But man, that pourage just looked prime then. P-R-I-M-E. Prime. I almost couldn't even stop myself from eating it; but being the curious cat I am, I took my time. I checked out some of the rest of the shack, made sure there weren't any people eloping or anything, so that I wouldn't perturb them. Rather than waste my time going into each and every room (even though I suppose the shack was rather small, but hey, I was a hungry man), I just stuck my ear to the walls where there were other rooms in. Listened for anything funny, and didn't find it, of course. It was kind of too bad not finding anything, but that disturbance didn't hit me because right then I was hungry. I ran back, and there was the steaming heaping breakfast o' champions sitting there for my delight and mine only. But just then, a really important thought hit me smack dab in the face. Slapped me so hard that I put down the spoon I'd taken from the table in a throw.

The three bears, that totally banal story. Wasn't this sort of like it in some way, or something? Yeah, it was. I mean, just look at it. Since when did people just leave their little shack open, leaving some beauties like the pourage here sitting all fancy free? Never, of course, or next to never. If you think about it, I suppose in the 1930's they'd done stuff like this, but that was the dirty 30's, this is in a shack, in the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Doesn't quite match up, right? No, it doesn't. Plus there was those claw marks on the door as I came in...and how hard it'd been to open the door. It all matched up. And I didn't want to end up like little goldilocks, all stuck with three bears that were total spazzes. I didn't at all.

As I stood there, all this rushing to my head like a rush of blood to the head, my stomach then began to grumble. Great timing, too, wasn't it? Here I was, just realizing that probably some total goon had set me up and had almost got me, and here I am, starving to death, needing some food. And what does the goon put in my face? The one thing I want above all else. Man, I started to get really scared, like maybe this goon, or whoever he was, actually knew me or something. A scary thought that was. But then again, it could have been someone pulling a prank on me, of all people. I mean, it was October, the supposed "month of creepiness." I was shooting mostly at stars I suppose. But, it was with something like a shotgun, all fragmented and uncertain. It didn't feel good in my stomach at all. It felt empty.

I didn't have a clue what to do. Well, I did have a clue, just like that game, but I didn't know which way to go. Who would do this to me? Why? I didn't have any idea why or who at all. And I couldn't focus, really, either. My stomach just kept on grumbling at me, and it wouldn't stop, either. You know that feeling of total emptiness, where you just feel like you're going to faint from lack of food? That's how I felt. And I just ended up being to where I couldn't stand it anymore at all. The pourage looked so good and great and filling, and I just couldn't stand it anymore. I needed it to live; it was like life or death.

I grabbed another spoon on the table, and I just banged my spoon right into one of the bowls of pourage—it was the biggest one of the three, I think. It felt warm instantly, and as the small wisps of steam touched my hand, it felt great. It felt like some beautiful gal was breathing on me, and it tickled my skin. I was somewhere in an ecstasy then, my mouth just moved back and forth in some kind of extreme pleasure. I moved the spoon closer and closer to my face, inch by inch, little spot by little spot, until it was almost right on my lips, kissing me, ready to go into my stomach and kill this emptiness. But then I paused, just had to. I was having second thoughts, yeah. There was this feeling in my chest that said to me sure that this stuff was poisoned or something. Maybe with alcohol? Maybe even something worse, like a date rape drug? I couldn't have been sure...it was kind of absurd to think it then, but my mind was making one last stand against me, one last try to show me what came first, the chicken or the scrambled eggs. It ended up being the scrambled eggs, of all things.

It's quite a disgrace, really. Here I am calling myself a "curious cat." A cat, to me, is something very deceptive, devious, flexible, understanding. They don't just rush into things, and they enjoy playing with something before just saying, "Ah, hell, what the fudge, I'ma just gonna kick ur ass," as some other frustrated individual might say or resolute to. But no, I've said I'm a cat. A curious cat. Something that does what it does in the right way without overlooking anything.

Yet here I was. Eating the pourage, it almost coming to my lips, my brain making this one last plea, this one last amity of relation and auxiliary fight. Showing me which came first, the chicken or the scrambled eggs, telling me it was wrong. And boy, my mind must've been pretty scrambled eggs, you know. Usually I am a chicken about most things—not to disgrace my cat felinities—and I don't do them just because. But being hungry, it's just like some different egg. It scrambles all up your brain when it's cracked, and oozes all over until it's cooked your brain into all yellowy, splattered chunks. It's the ultimate fallacy, and the proof is right here. I totally disgraced everything I stand for, and ate the pourage right then and there with all reason—except hunger—not to.

Yeah, there I was. Hungry, starving. And I just couldn't control myself. You know, it's people's necessities that just somehow fudge up everything else and just scramble everything to chunky chunks. And I just couldn't help myself. I mean, it wasn't like I was going to become some skeleton and just die from not eating food or anything. I just couldn't help myself, I guess. That's what it was.

When it came to my lips, everything else in my mind went away like weeds being plucked in a garden. Not that the thoughts in my minds were weeds or anything, you know, but I just couldn't concentrate on anything else but eating my pourage. Oh, it was so good, you know. Not good, but good good, that kind of good that just says, "Good," out loud as you stand there and all, telling you how good good can be. It's a good feeling to say the least.

I ended up eating that entire first bowl that was the biggest so fast it was gone as soon as I started. And I didn't feel like a pig or an oinker or anything, either. My stomach had this feeling that it had only eaten a small piece of something, and it screamed for more. Well, not screamed, but you know, it just told me it needed more, and then, at the time, it was all I could think of. All I could see in my head and from my eyes were those two bowls just sitting there, the steam rising up from them in beautiful smoke signals, telling me, "Eat me! Eat me!" in wonderful, warm voices. The curious cat part of me was gone I tell you, gone. And I didn't miss it then, either. All I wanted was more food, it was so good.

I could tell that whoever had made this pourage must've been some master chef. The stuff was perfect. I mean, just looking at it, not even eating it, I could tell it was pr-ime. It wasn't just regular crappy pourage. No, this stuff was made by someone that knew what they were doing. I could almost imagine what they looked like, too. Maybe it was someone I knew, you know, or some girl that really liked me and wanted to trap me here, so she'd made me this good pourage.

All I knew was the stuff was great. I ate all three bowls of it in quick fashion, not even stopping to let myself think let alone digest. All I tasted was pourage and all I knew was pourage then, you know. When I was done, I patted my belly. It felt so fat and large. That was when I felt like a pig, I tell you. I was so full; and, man, I absolutely hate the feeling of being so full. And then that's when all my thoughts started even hitting back at me, and then I felt stupid. The curious cat side of me, the one I'd disgraced and tucked away and not listened to came back, only this time it was a curious fat cat, drunk off o fall the food he'd eaten. That was me then; I was a fat curious cat, not just a curious cat anymore. And I didn't like how I was beginning to feel—I was starting to feel tired, drowsy, like I could just drop off to sleep. Wasn't this just how that goldilocks gal had gone into those bear's clutches?


It isn't done...yet.
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