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space: a cat, in a box July 17, 2008

Posted by eatnorthamerica in things that are not quite things we know, verbiage clusterfuck.

The way we dress the spaces we choose to inhabit says all we need to say about ourselves, in less time than it takes to take off our shoes.

What’s in your box? I keep a rug, a chair, a few cushions. It starts to feel crowded. I like it like a hollow shell.

Space, it’s relative; 12 Brazilian students crammed themselves into a one bed flat before they got booted out and I came. I can’t fathom this tub being large enough for two. 535 square feet for 12 people; that’s 45 square feet per person. I stand 5ft 1 and take up 535 square feet of living space. It seems a reasonable amount to me. I say that I don’t feel a need to have more space than this, but perhaps one day I will. In the style of Schrodinger I vacillate; yes or no, yes or no, and who can tell until the moment comes?

On a plane, someone takes up 200 dollars’ worth of your 600 dollar seat, and suddenly inches are a matter of insufferable magnitude.

Back to personal space; you’re not paying me any rent, so here’s an eviction notice.

My landlord drops in from New Zealand to take a look at my apartment. He’s thinking about finding a job in Vancouver. Either I find a new flat or I bring down the entire Vancouver VFX industry. 

Webworked cells, blind windows. This is living, ant-style. A foot of wall, that’s all that spares me the indignity of shared rooming. I value my personal space enough to fight you for it, in a cage surrounded by half a million strangers.

You come into my parlour and you’re that much closer to me, threading through the cloistered chambers of my heart. You come into my closet and leave yellow leaking down the side of my lavatory bowl — what should we call that?

My landlord leaves. I slip on new shoes and teeter to the door. And I, five inches taller, pause.

At my height, I don’t see the dust on the top of my refrigerator, nor on the tops of doorways.

At 6ft 2 my landlord sees things I should have cleaned, had I realised space exists outside of my band of sight.

My cat, who inhabits my flat at 0ft 9, looks up and sees the dust that lies beneath.


It’s all relative, like with those Brazilians. They sat on a crate with wings for a few hours, then piled their mattresses into an even smaller box. You gotta envy that kind of gumption. You gotta wonder where they went. I gotta wonder where you’d go.

Writhing down wormholes, surfing past singularities, breaking time and space to get to where we want to be. Space, she’s a hard lover. I loved once but would not stay; continents always drift away.

Don’t, don’t think of that; today is here, today is now, skimming the sweet salt susurrus of sea, snow peaks slumbering by your sail, six knots in a lazy haze.

As you said first, as you said best. We were too different, though at our end I loved you, either way.

Wind rises, earth turns, sun sleeps. A speck on a speck in a deep blue sky, I stare hard at the night. The stars are smaller than I can see; summer fades to fall debris.


Kiss me before flying, baby. I’ll see you on the other side.



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