Silly musings and Pablo Neruda’s Ode to the cat/Oda al gato

It’s late, four minutes to 1am…three now…

I never thought it possible that one day I could not find anything interesting online. You know, like when I used to watch TV late at night, just flipping channels…I don’t watch TV anymore, I mean the type that you have to  pay some cable company for ‘basic’ channels and ground the darn thing to one wall forever. Now-a-days, when I need to watch the news, I do it online. I don’t watch TV anymore. I never thought it could be possible to cut the umbilical cord one has with TVs. Makes you wonder what else one can cut out.

I remember when one were able to move the TV around the living room just to re-arrange the room, to break the monotony.

Now, make sure you got that Feng shui correctly before connecting your TV to that wall.

one possibility.

one possibility.

So there,  I’m bored. Sooo, I forced myself to read some PDF about how disability affects your voting patterns. I was sure it would cheer me up…one minute past 1 am now…

Anyways, the physically disabled and the mentally ill tend to be liberals, according to that PDF. Maybe they are liberals because they are mentally ill…now I’m getting self abusive. Well, the disabled tend to support civil rights causes, according to the ‘PDF’.

But what I did find interesting is that, despite being ‘liberals’, they tend to distrust the government. The article claims is because of the bad treatment they have historically received from both state and federal governments, not because they are paranoid or mentally ill. I agree. Yet, our society haven’t read that PDF.

The article stated that there are three reasons that moves people to vote: whether they have the means (money and mobility, with the disabled having little of both), psychology ( whether they want to vote and take part in politics, which they tend not to because they are too tired and depressed) and recruitment (whether campaigns approached them for their vote, which they are not because they are not organized enough to be a ‘block’ to be courted). Okay, it’s 1:30 sharp. In any case, the participation of the disabled in elections swings back and forth through the years. They can decide an election, though. Keep it in mind, who ever is running for president next.

OK. I can’t take this any more.

I have two new cats. (My previous two cats died four months ago. I miss my Boquita immensely…)The boy looks like a tiger-cub: huge little paws. He’s ugly but has personality, he has that ‘I don’t know what’. He is ‘disabled’ too; he has one bowed leg. I don’t know whether he was born like that or is it a healed broken leg. Makes him look cute. He runs with a limp, but he always catches up with the girl and annoys the crap out of her. Later, when he’s sleeping, she jumps on him and chases him around the apartment. They do love each other. She just jumped into my lap. I still don’t have names for them. They don’t care. They respond only to the sound of a can-opener doing its job. Have you noticed that when you call your dog he looks at you and shake that tail all excited that you are paying attention to him? When I call my cats, they turn their faces away from me. Which brings me to good old Pablo.

Ode To The Cat — Pablo Neruda

The animals were imperfect,
their tails were too long,
had sorry heads.
Then they started coming together,
little by little
fitting together to make a landscape,
acquiring birthmarks, grace, flight.
But the cat,
only the cat
turned out finished and proud:cat proud
born in a state of total completion,
it sticks to itself and knows exactly what it wants.

Man would like to be fish and fowl,
the snake would like to have wings,
the dog is a disoriented lion,
the engineer wants to be a poet
the fly studies to become a swallow,
the poet tries hard to imitate the fly,
but the cat
wants nothing more than to be a cat,
and every cat is a pure cat
from its whiskers to its tail,
from sixth sense to squirming rat,
from nighttime to its golden eyes.

Nothing hangs together
quite like a cat:
neither flowers nor the moon
such contexture:
It’s a thing by itself
like the sun or a topaz,
and the elastic curve of its back,
which is both firm and subtle
like the curve of a sailing ship’s prow.
Its yellow eyes
left only one
for depositing the coins of the night.

O little
emperor without a realm,
conqueror without a homeland,
diminutive parlor tiger, nuptial
sultan of heavens
roofed in erotic tiles,
the wind of love
out in the open
you demand
when you pass
and poise
four delicate paws
on the ground,
sniffing,cat paw
of all earthly things
because everything
is rubbish
to the cat’s immaculate paw.

O  household’s independent
beast, arrogant
vestige of night,
lazy, gymnastic and unaware.

cat moto

O fathomless cat,
secret police
of human chambers,
of extinct velvet!
Surely there is nothing
in your way,
maybe you are not a mystery after all.
You are known to everyone,                                                                                              you belong
to the least mysterious tenant.
Everyone may believe it,
believe they are master,
owner, uncle of cats,
companion, colleagues,
disciple or friends of their cat.

But not me.
I’m not a believer.
I don’t know a thing about cats.
I know everything else, life and its archipelago,
seas and unpredictable cities,
the pistil and its scandals,
the pluses and minuses of math.
I know the earth’s volcanic funnels
and the crocodile’s unreal shell,
the fireman’s unseen kindness
and the priest’s blue atavism.

cat leave
But a cat I can’t figure out.
My mind slipped on its indifference.
Its eyes hold ciphers of gold.


Los animales fueron
largos de cola, tristes
de cabeza.
Poco a poco se fueron
haciéndose paisaje,
adquiriendo lunares, gracia, vuelo.
El gato,
sólo el gato
apareció completo
y orgulloso:
nació completamente terminado,
camina solo y sabe lo que quiere.

El hombre quiere ser pescado y pájaro,
la serpiente quisiera tener alas,
el perro es un león desorientado,
el ingeniero quiere ser poeta,
la mosca estudia para golondrina,
el poeta trata de imitar la mosca,
pero el gato
quiere ser sólo gato
y todo gato es gato
desde bigote a cola,
desde presentimiento a rata viva,
desde la noche hasta sus ojos de oro.

No hay unidad
como él,
no tienen
la luna ni la flor
tal contextura:
es una sola cosa
como el sol o el topacio,
y la elástica línea en su contorno
firme y sutil es como
la línea de la proa de una nave.
Sus ojos amarillos
dejaron una sola
para echar las monedas de la noche.

Oh pequeño
emperador sin orbe,
conquistador sin patria,
mínimo tigre de salón, nupcial
sultán del cielo
de las tejas eróticas,
el viento del amor
en la intemperie
cuando pasas
y posas
cuatro pies delicados
en el suelo,
de todo lo terrestre,
porque todo
es inmundo
para el inmaculado pie del gato.

Oh fiera independiente
de la casa, arrogante
vestigio de la noche,
perezoso, gimnástico
y ajeno,
profundísimo gato,
policía secreta
de las habitaciones,
de un
desaparecido terciopelo,
seguramente no hay
en tu manera,
tal vez no eres misterio,
todo el mundo te sabe y perteneces
al habitante menos misterioso,
tal vez todos lo creen,
todos se creen dueños,
propietarios, tíos
de gatos, compañeros,
discípulos o amigos
de su gato. Yo no.

Yo no suscribo.
Yo no conozco al gato.
Todo lo sé, la vida y su archipiélago,
el mar y la ciudad incalculable,
la botánica,
el gineceo con sus extravíos,
el por y el menos de la matemática,
los embudos volcánicos del mundo,
la cáscara irreal del cocodrilo,
la bondad ignorada del bombero,
el atavismo azul del sacerdote,
pero no puedo descifrar un gato.
Mi razón resbaló en su indiferencia,
sus ojos tienen números de oro.
………..I’m bored no more.

PS: I’m fine. Just practicing my composition skills. They suck, I know.

One response to “Silly musings and Pablo Neruda’s Ode to the cat/Oda al gato

  1. Pingback: From one household television to eight – growing up as TV does | ashleigh?

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