Crazy Town

An unexpected arrival.

The woman behind the counter at Petco has the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. When I tell her this, somehow they become even more dazzling, like precious jewels in a video game. I want to ask her questions—despite eyes shining above a face mask, she looks lonely—things like, Have you always worked at Petco? Or is this a post-retirement job? Do you have any pets? What kind? But I refrain from inquiring because it is late, almost nine p.m. on a weekday, and I have a hungry kitten waiting for me at home. A few hours earlier, I did not have a kitten, but things have changed, and now I am partly responsible for a lifeform so small and soft she nestles in the space between my neck and shoulder like a warm cinnamon bun.

I pick up the bag of kibble—at this point, it is unknown whether Baby Girl can eat raw food like Big Man and Old Girl, who I pray forgive us, Will and I, for this egregious trespass, i.e., Will for bringing and me for allowing another cat into our already cramped house—and head outside.

The parking lot is cold and dark. It is so cold my nostrils Velcro in and out when I breathe, billowing clouds into the lightless sky. Before I reach the car, the tips of my eyelashes have crystallized, and I’m terrified. Not of the black ice hiding on the snowy roads or the subzero temps or the night, but of loving something so much so soon.

And so frail. Cradling the kitten in my cupped hands is like holding a bag of air with bones suspended inside. How can this be? More concerning, who (what poor soul) would leave such a thing in a box on the side of the road in winter?

Overnight, my creative space is converted into a kitten haven. Beneath old drawings and darkroom prints sprawls a landmine of jangly toys, cardboard boxes, scratchers, wooly balls, litter, dishes for food and water, and endless places to climb and hide. I don’t mind sharing my space if it means Baby Girl, aka Little Miss Crazy Town, is alive and well, lounging upon her carpeted throne like a tiny queen, her face open and mewing. Which, depending on her mood, either means feed me! feed me! or else love me! love me! And I do, oh, I do more than anything.

Art corner in my creative space. Below [not pictured]: chaos!

Original pencil drawing. 2015. On display alongside other artwork I’ve made over the years. How my heart feels loving this tiny being: open and exposed.

Opposite wall: darkroom prints. 2017-2019.

Once the kitten has settled in and the Establishment has grown to tolerate her existence, I sit down and write out some resolutions. It is almost spring; the crocuses will be here soon. But better late than never.

• I resolve to be a good cat mom to Big Man, Old Girl, and Little Miss Crazy Town. (Names have been changed to protect their identities.)

• I resolve to install software updates on my devices as soon as they are available and not wait until things glitch and I’m forced to.

• I resolve to wash the dishes promptly and not let them languish in the sink for eight-plus hours on the premise that they are “soaking.”

• I resolve to stop messing with my tooth, the one sticking out. Anytime I’m tempted to press on it with my tongue or bemoan its ever-increasing protrusion, I will say to myself the same thing I say to Big Man and Little Miss Crazy Town whenever they pester Old Girl: She wants to be left alone.

• I resolve to be more feral, less kempt, and stranger.

• I resolve to write more freely.

• I resolve to actually write and not just imagine writing, even though what I imagine writing is so good, it’s the best stuff I’ve written.

• I resolve to avenge the field, the one that was destroyed and replaced with that hideous Grinch-green astroturf, not with equal violence, necessarily, but some other expression of outrage and mourning, perhaps a shrine or commemorative plaque to honor the slain and displaced: the butter-soft flowers and the rabbits who ate them; the wind-whipped butterflies; the milkweed.

• I resolve to bake a bundt cake. Nothing fancy, just a bundt cake. It can be dry.

• I resolve to let my apparent aimlessness animate me like wind whisking up a kite.

A calm moment.

Crazy Town, for her part, has resolved to be a living stuffed toy and also a reprieve from the ceaseless horrors happening each day, everywhere, all the time. In the a.m., before I can even look to see what fresh atrocity has transpired, she darts up onto the bed and worms her way under the duvet into my arms, where I hold her rumbling body against mine, careful not to squeeze too tight for fear I will love the living daylight out of this thing who just wants to cuddle and play and be alive. It is a worthy pursuit, one that perhaps doesn't sound like much (see also: my resolutions), but it is everything. Everything. Throughout the day, her joyous playing elicits equally joyous sounds that take a beat to register as coming from me. Unbridled giggling? Strange!

Compared to what is happening all over, my resolutions admittedly feel small. I worry I’m not being brave or if I should be bolder, really put myself out there and fight more fervently for what I believe in, what is invariably at stake. I look at the kitten, adhered to a sheer vertical plane, and think, my god, she is so tiny… and so brave. Despite the adversity and obstacles placed along her path, she continues to propel herself into each moment like it’s an empty shoebox. Every day, she brings delight to our faces. Delight that is readily available and yet often hard to come by and, as such, must be acknowledged and celebrated; like a fake mouse, tossed about.

That’s another resolution I’m committed to: naming joy. I text Will things like, “Remind me to tell you why I’m feeling good,” or declaring in the middle of cooking dinner or watching the cats chase each other around the house, “I feel hopeful right now. I feel happy.” I practice saying what is true yet feels almost embarrassing but must be said, or else it will go unnoticed and fade with the day, the month, the year, never to return in the same way twice.

I have to tell you: You have the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen.

And it’s true. I do. It would be cowardly not to. 💎

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The photographs featured in this piece were made using a Minolta Autocord TLR 120 film camera with Kodak Tri-X film. They were developed at home with Kodak and FPP chemicals and scanned with an Epson V800 scanner and SilverFast software.