If Noni the cat vanished we were in for some bad times. Noni was our good omen, our heartening sight in distress for we knew that if she could survive in these conditions, anything could be possible. Noni was our sign that our proper organic relationship with nature would one day be restored, foretaste of paradise. Should we feel no sound of rustling in the bush, we heard no gentle pawing, everything in disarray. How would we latch onto meaning without a rhythm?
A cat's scratching at our door filled our heart-gaping wonder. Life had not ended, despite the fact that we had given up. Of meaning, the rhythm. A sound of meaning. At the door.
For us, as if fortune has supplied it. We were down to this now. Tender playthings of fortune. Not without needs, but that was to our credit. Dead then?
We couldn't open the door of our cell. The light would be intense.
Cats scratch.
We wanted to leap out and hug her. This also had been outlawed. The cry of impotence our own.
There had once between men and women who would ride a steely mount. We risked life and limb in those days and in all sorts of weather. Now now. Those realities had been forgotten and people spoke in all manner of ways but not laconically.
I suppressed my feelings, seeing only shadows. Dark shadows looming on the wall. A cat's face featured there, but the real cat was outside. I felt her presence but was denied the possibility to touch her.
Tumbulations were on our mind. This fateful mode of transcendence. Fateful because half of us would die under their impact. Tumbulations returning to Earth were a frightening event, worse than a meteorite strike in many, many ways. We lived under the mental shock of their ricocheting.
And now all I wanted to do was stroke a cat. This was the pretty reward I'd got for trying to move my way up out of the infantry stage. To be captured in this way, forbidden action, and have to work solely from one's mind. The shadows of the mind were sometimes too intense.
We had to make the tumbulation, and then we would be free, we would free ourselves.
We'd had things in the past and now we only had things in our minds. The tunicked characters made sure of that, although we hadn't recognised them yet. They were our guardians and our keepers. We were their prisoners of war.
A cat's scratching at our door filled our heart-gaping wonder. Life had not ended, despite the fact that we had given up. Of meaning, the rhythm. A sound of meaning. At the door.
For us, as if fortune has supplied it. We were down to this now. Tender playthings of fortune. Not without needs, but that was to our credit. Dead then?
We couldn't open the door of our cell. The light would be intense.
Cats scratch.
We wanted to leap out and hug her. This also had been outlawed. The cry of impotence our own.
There had once between men and women who would ride a steely mount. We risked life and limb in those days and in all sorts of weather. Now now. Those realities had been forgotten and people spoke in all manner of ways but not laconically.
I suppressed my feelings, seeing only shadows. Dark shadows looming on the wall. A cat's face featured there, but the real cat was outside. I felt her presence but was denied the possibility to touch her.
Tumbulations were on our mind. This fateful mode of transcendence. Fateful because half of us would die under their impact. Tumbulations returning to Earth were a frightening event, worse than a meteorite strike in many, many ways. We lived under the mental shock of their ricocheting.
And now all I wanted to do was stroke a cat. This was the pretty reward I'd got for trying to move my way up out of the infantry stage. To be captured in this way, forbidden action, and have to work solely from one's mind. The shadows of the mind were sometimes too intense.
We had to make the tumbulation, and then we would be free, we would free ourselves.
We'd had things in the past and now we only had things in our minds. The tunicked characters made sure of that, although we hadn't recognised them yet. They were our guardians and our keepers. We were their prisoners of war.
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