Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Yeah, I think it's time to move.
There are lots of negative aspects about my apartment.
But there are a lot of positive aspects, too.
I've been feeling a little melancholy about moving. Lots of memories here. Some really good times have been had here. And there are the physical aspects. Nice high ceilings. Cute architectural details. Lots of space. Alcoves. Pretty wood floors. Lots of windows. Window ledges.
It's the perfect cat apartment. Furry Creature has loved living here. Lots of space for a big cat to run and chase and play tag and lose toys and do summersaults and lots of corners to do fish tail wipe outs while running. Window ledges deep enough to comfortably sit and watch the activities outside, greet the occasional bird or squirrel visitor. Discreet and private box area. Mice to catch and present to the human.
Yes. Mice. After all the years we've lived here, never, not once, have we had any rodent issues. There was the bizarre fly incident of the Summer of 1999, the strange appearance in the entire building of flies for two days. Gross, but easily managed. Every now and then Furry Creature will find a spider.
But never any rodent mammals or avian.
Until 2:30 this morning. Furry Creature and I go to bed together, I read, he takes a bath. I try to sleep. He sleeps. I doze off. He wakes. And wants to play. The hours between 1:30 and 4:00 AM are prime play hours for cats.
So when I heard the 2:30 AM Kitten Frenzy taking place, I didn't think anything was unusual.
Imagine my surprise when I got up this morning, slid into my slippers, turned on the light, scuffed across the bedroom, go to kick/push the cat toys at Furry Creature for a little morning game of chase. Just before my slipper made contact with the toy my eyes focused and zeroed in on the toys and AAAAAEEEEEECCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!
Frozen in space two inches from kicking the toys, I realized there were not one but two actual once living, breathing mice strategically placed in the bedroom doorway, Furry Creature sitting proudly behind them. Animals can't speak. Animals allegedly do not feel emotions the way humans do. I'm not one to overly anthropomorphize. I do believe animals have a system of emotions, but not human emotions. (I wonder what the word is for giving animal emotions to humans...technically it should be anthropomorphizing.)
But.
By the look on his face, that darned cat was feeling something like pride over his kill and sat there waiting for me to get out of bed and show me what he'd done for me. He was grinning. If he could talk, if he did experience human emotions, he would be saying, "Good morning, Trillian. I trust you slept well. While you were resting there was a situation. I dealt with it and have brought you the intruders so that you may deal with them as you see fit. Might I suggest a tarragon and oregano based sauce in the slow cooker, yes, cook them very slowly, accompanied by a robust cabernet? Shall I make the preparations in the kitchen while you have your bath? Oh no, really, you don't have to thank me, just doing my job."
I'm not one of those girls who goes oooohh eeeeeeek ooooooh a mouse! a mouse! (bug/lizard/whatever) typically, if alive, I feel bad for the being and try to set it free. Spiders, bugs, anything. I am the one who emancipated the Giant Arachnid in the ladies room at my old office. I don't delight in these endeavors, there are other things I'd rather do, but, if a being who is normally outside finds its way inside, I put aside my human displeasure, put myself in the creature's wings/feelers/sucky feet, and do what I can to release it outside. This is not always a pleasant experience, great pains are taken to make no contact with the creature whatsoever, it is typically not a calm experience. It is usually swift.
But here we had two creatures who would not be scampering out back into the wilds of the streets of Chicago like Chip and Dale. I don't like dead things. Dead anything upsets me.
But. I live with a natural born killer.
Who was, after all, just doing his instinctive job.
As much as I would like to think my big, fluffy, bundle of purring fur and cuddles wouldn’t hurt anything or anyone, the fact is that he’s a cat. And on the food chain and evolution scale, cats are predators. You can tell by the positioning of their eyes. Front and center of their face. No need for side placed eyes, no need for defensive peripheral vision. That is if you notice their eyes while their fangs and claws are ripping and shredding and tossing and playing with you.
I can’t anthropomorphize my vegetarianism, pacifism and non-aggression onto my roommate who happens to be a different species than I. And a predatory natural born killer.
It bothers me to have the food chain and evolution chart come to life in my home. The natural history wing of the Field Museum does a fine job of that, I cannot and do not want to compete.
I am not naive. I know this about cats. I realize their instincts are to kill first and don’t ask questions later. My big bundle of furry purring love (there I go, anthropomorphizing again) will not only kill any intruder below him on the food chain, but he will “play” with it, torture it and make it suffer before killing it.
This should bother me. Because I’m not that sort of person. I do not condone this behavior in my species. I would not allow a human who exhibits this behavior in my home. I would call police if I saw a human doing what cats do. But because he’s a cat, and a big furry bundle of purr, I accept his genetic lot in life, excuse his proclivity to kill. I give him surrogate prey in the form of lots of toys he can stalk and hunt and take out his natural aggression. He gives me hours of entertainment and companionship and cuddles and kitty kisses. I know he is infinitely smarter than I am - his brain is at least 1/4 the size of mine, yet he is much more than 1/4 as clever. If my brain were the size of his I would be nonfunctional. Swut, as it is my brain is 75% larger than his and half the time I function more stupidly than he does. Give a cat a human sized brain and opposable thumbs and...
I see dead people.
Right.
I was standing there, slippered foot in mid air, reasoning all of this, trying to come to terms with my human empathy for the mice and my cat’s feline instinct to kill rodent intruders, when it occurred to me: How’d the mice get in here in the first place?
And: Are there more?
Insert: Squeal like a girl.
I am not proud of that. I am not afraid of mice. I don’t want them in my home, but I am not afraid of them. No, the squeal like a girl was because if there are more mice, the nocturnal killings will continue. My big bundle of purring fur will make it his personal business to see to the total annihilation of the rodent population.
“Life ain’t like Beatrix Potter, kid,” my big bundle of purring fur gruffly cracked at me. “Deal with it.”
I am very, very relieved that he did not bring them into the bed and drop them on my face while I slept, as he often does with his toy mice.
But there I was with two dead mice artistically arranged in my hall.
And a “proud” and “beaming” cat "lording" over them.
And the only thing between me and the void of life mice was a bunny slipper.
Oh the irony.
I’ve never had a mouse situation.
I’ve never had to deal with this crisis of spirit over the clash of species.
I’ve never had to remove void of life beings my roommate voided of life.
Shallow Grave.
What’ a little murder among friends?
Of course the mice weren’t rich.
And my roommate’s of a non-human species.
And Ewan McGregor is nowhere to be seen. (Swut the luck, never a good looking, clever, sarcastic bloke around when you really need one.)
They went up there alive and came back down dead! Did you notice that? The difference, I mean: alive, dead, dead, alive, that sort of thing? It wasn't difficult to spot. He killed them both.
(and just because I can’t resist playing Tattoo Love Boy because it’s one of the best lines ever uttered on screen: “...when you sacrifice a goat and you rip its heart out with your bare hands, do you then summon hellfire? Or do you just send out for a pizza?”)
What to do with the bodies? I didn’t want to actually touch them. A) They’re dead and I don’t like beings which were once breathing and pumping blood but are no longer able to perform their life sustaining functions, and B) These are city mice, tough street mice. (well, obviously not as tough as they thought they were) They’ve probably got all sorts of diseases, I’ve heard about “clubs” where no questions are asked, it’s just a big cellar where open minded experimental rodents go to do things with other like minded rodents. C) They’re dead mice.
And my cat killed them.
Ewwwwwwwww. I slept with him! He cuddles and kisses me with those paws and that mouth! Not anymore.
Insert tinny muzak while Trillian leaps over dead mice, lunges to the bathroom and begins her day with a nice cleansing vomit.
Anyone care for tea?
Oh yeah. The mice.
Can’t just leave them there.
I donned the closest thing to a biohazard suit I have (poodle patterned pajamas, sweats, two pair of socks, my uncle’s New Foundland expedition parka, boot liners, hiking boots, two pair of gloves, sunglasses, ski face mask, knit cap securely holding pony tailed hair and tucked under it. Yeah. Regulation FEMA gear. Just call me FEMA Girl. After the holocaust it’ll be me and Donald Rumsfeld left to populate the world.)
Fortunately because I am in the midst of packing my entire life into boxes, I have lots of paper and long stiff things around the apartment.
I am not going into detail because what happened next is sort of a nauseous blur, but it was swift and let’s just say my soon to be ex neighbors will be talking about the freak who used to live next door long after I’m gone.
There was some reading of last rites, talk of bravery, spirit of adventure and courage, and a prayer for peaceful interspecies coexistence.
Even though I scrubbed the hall with every cleaner and disinfectant I have (including eye makeup remover, girls know this, I’ll enlighten the guys: Eye makeup remover will remove anything. Which concerns me in regard to the safety of using it on my eyes. But keep a bottle handy, it’s one of the best all purpose cleaners you can find.) But even after the scouring, every time I go past the place where they were sacrificed and artistically arranged for my assumed pleasure, I squirm and feel ill. (Too much Poe too early in life. Soon I'll be hearing little mouse sized heart beats.)
If I wasn’t already moving I’d have to move.
It makes me feel uncomfortable. It reminds me that I live with a predatory killer. It reminds me that my love all, accept all attitude does not extend to other species. Or even my own species.
Or men I date.
So it’s a good thing I’m moving. I want to rid myself of those uncomfortable reminders. Which makes me realize, along with all the good memories and fond times I’ve had in my apartment, there have been some not so good ones, too. The Holiday Mouse Massacre of 2004 will be near the top of the list, of course, but as I look around the apartment I can conjure other unpleasant memories in many other spots. Even eye makeup remover can’t remove some of those messes.
