There are some cats on a boat. The boat is in the middle of the
The cats walk around on their hind legs. They are looking for something. The cats have taught themselves things like how to make a boat, and how to steer it into the
The cats have learnt a lot.
There are one hundred and fourteen cats on the boat. Some times, like if all the cats are bunched up together, looking over the side of the boat at something, it feels cramped and like a bad idea. At other times, maybe if all the cats are in different areas and compartments of the boat, it feels like there is lots of space and the whole thing was a good idea after all.
No one is in charge.
The cats take it in turn to ‘man the rigging’ and ‘carry the Christmas pudding’ and ‘play the record album’. The cats are listening to Tunnel of Love by Bruce Springsteen on repeat. This is their favourite album. It is somehow easier to take songs about low-down American drifters and transmute that experience into the experience of some cats on a boat, than it is, for instance, to take some songs about gangs or about love and transmute those.
The cats are choosy. They are mostly without patience.
The cats go in and out of different areas and compartments of the boat, looking for something. None of them are sure what it is. The cats feel lost and confused. They feel clichéd, looking over the sides of the boat and getting excited about a fish.
Fuck balls of wool.
The cats feel mostly awkward and contorted on their hind legs, but also closer to something. ‘If I could just contort my body enough to become completely vertical,’ they think, ‘like a furry straight line, then maybe there would be more to do, more meaning, more something.’
It is on The Cat Boat and the