A Central Texas Art and Literary Joural
February
2013
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BOHEMIA February 2013 Volume 3, Number 2 ISSN No. 2162-8653 Editor In Chief Amanda Hixson Designer Devin Stroud Assistant Designer Gwendy Webb Editorial Board: Mandy Bray, Jim McKeown, Erica Photiades, Devin Stroud, Gary Lee Webb, Cynthia Wheeler The BoHo crew also includes many talented bloggers, regular contributors, photographers, contract models, and friends who lend their talents frequently. Photo Editor: Cynthia Wheeler Fashion editor: Serena Teakell Writers: Mandy Bray, Caleb Farmer, Meg Miller, Jim McKeown, and Gary Lee Webb Cover credits: Model Leah Owens Photographer Cynthia Wheeler Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX and represents a Central Texas perspective. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and self-produced magazine. Please follow our submission guidelines. Contact Bohemia through www.bohemia-journal.com
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table of contents
_ _ _ _how to clean your steps 4 _ Cynthia Jacobi _old cat, old dog 5 _ Gena Deeds-Page _ e t h e r e a l 8 _ JoAnna Bauer _found poem 10 _ Darrel Petska _ Rare Cats 12-13 _Gary Lee Webb _little orange found dead 15 _Michael Haeflinger _old sun records/little white paws/playful 17 _Matt Denison/Michael Lee Johnson/Michael Lee Johnson _finiteness of tastes/why i will not get out of bed/nikki 19 _Ronja Vieth/Ed Higgins/Michael Lee Johnson _blackie 21 _Micheal Lee Johnson _A Brief History of Egyptian Cats 22-23 _Jim McKeown _Crazy about Cats 24-25 _Megan Miller _bathroom cat/Kitten play 26 _McGuire Quinn Irvine/ Michael Lee Johnson _The Cat Who Writer 27 _Feline Master 28 _Mandy Bray _elm streets crazy cat lady 29 _Nazifa Islam _Paw-sel und Me-al 30-31 _Gary Lee Webb _Illustration: Gena Deeds-Page 31 _Feline Dreams 33 _William Blackrose _Interview 34-35 _Megan Miller _Illustration: Gena Deeds-Page 34 _A Cat May Look... 36-37 _Genny Page _Photos: Megan Smith 36-37 _Double O Cats 38-39 _Kelly Digh _SWF 40-41 _Erica Photiades _Cats on the Edge & lolcats 42-45 _Megan Miller
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Cat naps
Photo editorial by Cynthia Wheeler
How To Clean Your Steps by Cynthia Jacobi
In Holland, Mother said, the housewives Wash their front steps with milk. When buckets clatter empty The cats come, mewing in excited stutters. They scour the steps, Rough, pink tongues seeking milk. Purring, they sprawl onto their thin ribs Rolling back to side over and over Pushing their fur into the steps Buffing the stones to a pearly sheen.
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Old Cat,,Old Dog by Gena Deeds-Page
Old cat, old dog Lying on my bed Cat dreams, eyes wide Ears alert, breath intent Muscles rippling her fur Sinuous shape-shifter Not like the dog Who sleeps with her eyes closed And has only one shape Solid and comfortable I pet the cat She accepts my homage, Languidly shapes herself To the curve of my hand I pet the dog She looks up, rapt with joy Rolls over, sighs, and then Burrows under my quilt Cat bathes, dog snores Lying on my bed
Hair and Make-up Missy Von Parlo Pgs 3-4 Serena Teakell Pg 5 Ann Fitzpatrick Pg 6-9 Savannah Loftin Pg 10 Serena Teakell Pg 11 Ashley Henager
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Ethereal by JoAnne Bauer
You arrived as a ball of fluff, bouncing in all directions. A kitten, your smile enigmatic -- yet unmistakable whenever you sat puff-chested in sunlight at my dorm window. Neither leash nor tall tree thwarted you, wily free. Camouflaged on a branch; not easy, not too hard to coax down. We’d toss your bright yarn ball, which you’d unravel back to solid colors then look away, wanting to be noticed again and again yet again. On high kitchen shelves you feigned innocence, Then haunched down to attack. We’d chastise yet photograph at the same time. In your dotage, holiday scarves round your neck you scratched at legs under the dining table, but always stayed clear of wayward feet. The world was cuddle-warm, simpler, yet full lovable when you were here.
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F ound Poem by Darrell Petska Our cat is one, though perversely close to the vest: she has slept all morning, all yesterday, too, though once I know she used her litter box. Last night at dinnertime she appeared, smelled what’s cooking, and left to curl in the lambswool sweater on the closet floor. Could it be after midnight she does the mata hari before our alabaster sphinx, plots mayhem eye to eye with our aquariumed fish crunching them in absentia all night long? At daylight her bowl is empty. She lies asleep, not a good morning, not a twitch. Rosina would rather die than come when called. At a glance she’ll leave a hairball— we’d wanted a dog. One morning she was there. 10 • bohemia • February 2013
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T
he Snow Leopard, or Ounce, is 4 to 5’ long with a 3’ tail, weighing 110 - 170 lbs., shorter but heavier than the Leopard that we are all familiar with. The Ounce is not just a white Leopard despite similarities in size. The Snow Leopard has long silky white fur, with black mottling, and a profusion of black dots across the face. It has heavily furred paws that act as snowshoes, spreading its weight over more than the toes (like most cats it walks on its toes). Like the Jaguar, it has the equipment to roar, but apparently has never learned how. It is an inhabitant of the high, cold mountains of Central Asia: the Himalayas, Pamirs, and the Altai, usually keeping to the forests between 7900’ and 14000’ but occasionally ranging down to 5900’ in the winter and past the tree line to 18000’ in the summer. It is an opportunistic eater, preying upon ibex, markhor, sheep, deer, gazelles, boars, hares, as well as mice and birds.
T
he smallest of the great cats, the tree-dwelling Clouded Leopard ranges through the lower Asian mountain forests: India, Nepal, China, Taiwan, Burma, Indo-China, Sumatra, and Borneo from sea level to 6500’. The Indonesian variant is now considered a separate species. It is 3’ long (2 1/2’ tail), weighs 33-44 lbs., and is dark grey with black splotches, thus looking somewhat like a dark, smaller, even stockier copy of its cousin, the Snow Leopard. It has some Lynx-like characteristics: it lacks the Hyoid bones to roar and its eyes contract to a spindle. The Clouded Leopard is a twilight hunter, taking monkeys, squirrels, birds, deer, and wild boar. It is an excellent climber, capable of running straight down a trunk or hanging upside down, waiting for prey to pass underneath.
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he Serval is 20” to 40” long, with tails half that, weighing 8 to 42 lbs. Servals have the longest legs of any felines, and extremely long feet, adding to their height (like most cats, they stand on their toes), and long oval ears, giving them extremely acute hearing. They are also reputed to be highly intelligent, good at problem solving. Servals have an orange-brown coat with a variety of spots and bars. Interestingly, Serval eyes do not contract to a vertical slit like most cats, but rather contract to a spindle. Servals inhabit the African Savannah, but require river courses in their territory, so they avoid the desert. Servals normally hunt at night. Usual prey is rodents, however, they are opportunistic, eating anything from insects to small deer.
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Rare Cats by Gary Lee Webb
T
he Caracal ranges from 2’ to 3 1/2’ long and 11 to 68 lbs. in weight; they have tails one third as long as their body. Caracals are reddish-brown to yellow grey, with a variety of spots and bars, with black, triangular ears. Caracals are one of the few felines whose eyes contract to a point, not a slit. They have stiff hairs between the toes, helping them to walk on sand. Caracals inhabit a variety of Asian and African highlands. They are night hunters, usually killing hyraxes, hares, and rodents, but not above helping themselves to the poultry, sheep, and goats provided by incautious farmers. It is also a great climber and jumper, known for catching birds in mid-flight. The caracal makes a wide range of sounds, including growling, purring, hissing, and even barking.
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emminck’s Golden Cat is 2’5” to 3’5” long and can be heavily built at 13 to 35 lbs, with a solid golden coat, and a 16” to 23” tail. It inhabits scrublands and forests in the south-eastern quarter of Asia, ranging high into the Himalayas (up to 13,000’) as well as down into evergreen forests, grasslands, and even rainforests. They hunt birds, rodents, reptiles, and even small deer or mountain goats.
T
he Jaguarundi or Eyra is a 2’ to 4’6” long cat inhabiting forests and scrublands between Argentina and Texas, and also spotted in Florida. It is long and slender, weighing only 12 to 22 lbs., and to some eyes, otter-shaped, thus acquiring the name “Otter-Cat.” The tail ranges from 1’ to 2’. It comes in two colorations: a solid red-brown with grey ringed overlays and a solid grey (both lighter underneath). Originally, the two forms were thought to be different species: reddish form is also known as the Eyra, and the grey form is the Jaguarundi. It has a varied diet, eating birds, small mammals, reptiles, fruit, and even fish (it is a great climber and swimmer).
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Little Orange Found Dead by Michael Haeflinger
In that neglected strip of lawn between sidewalk and street, neck broke, his body still lunges. I got that shovel and that pitchfork and she got that white kitchen bag and we made our choice – “He ain’t getting any deader,” I argued – “No less decomposed,” she agreed. Into the red can with the tight-fitting lid. Little Orange who never lived indoors or slept on the sofa. Little Orange, never nuzzled behind the ears, never excavated a warm thigh with soft pads. Died alone. A fighter whose savage cries we heard through tight-sealed windows after the porch light was turned out. Little Orange ready for Tuesday trash pickup from that same neglected strip of lawn where that ash tree is dying and falling in chunks to the ground.
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Little White Cat Paws by Michael Lee Johnson
Old Sun Records by Matt Denison
Where goes the mind of the house cat trapped between front door and screen door all day?
Playful
by Michael Lee Johnson
Nothing more playful than a gray moth dancing -skeleton wingsand a green-eyed cat prancing -paws swattingaround a lit kerosene lamp -shadow boxing& we all had fun in the moonlight.
we all walk with padded little white cat pawssqueamishly live with small-scaled thoughts and injured wings, pocket-sized words, expressions exaggeratededged within secondstill the small black box arrives, sobering, stores death like angel or devil in cahoots, kitten and man alike, annihilatedclock stops archives in place, zap that last whistle. February 2013• bohemia • 17
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Nikki
By Michael Lee Johnson
Why I Will Not Get Out Of Bed by Ed Higgins
Like a vampire caught out of my coffin at sunrise the daylight will vaporize me. Joy streaming through the bright August window will be disturbed, she will become frightened
Finiteness of Tastes by Ronja Vieth
The fat flops of my cat hitting the floor interrupts the trapped fly’s buzzing overhead who’s lost its buddies in the vastness of my small house. While my cat’s bell on his fish-patterned blue collar indicates his continuing prowling, I ruminate on the reasons that restrain me from chasing catnip specters like him or reinventing you. The answers are so simple, yet hard to understand or remember when held against the light of the empty kitchen that used to be usurped for your experimental cooking – meals that you complained I never liked, criticizing my matured taste in foods and men, and I hear the fly’s final buzz become a cat’s delectable crunch.
at my naked, evil form. She will leave the room seeing I am not dead.
Watching doves peck away, all day long at a full bowl of mixed seeds, out on the balconythe cat curls up on the sofa, after a meager meal of house fliesand dreams of sparrows with wide soaring wings.
Other day demons are out there: haste, worry, fake smiling, the sky too blue. And the cat has killed another rat, black as an old scuffed fear. Left in the bathroom its maimed ghost is swimming in the toilet, swirling round & round. Watching for me in the mirror.
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Blackie
By Michael Lee Johnson
Blackie is a kitten with moon spoon midnight green eyes. Who sits quiet nightlyon the edge of his world hunched on curved stone on a corner lot in the small village of Villa Park, across from the prairie pathdevouring fireflies and hissing at the cadence of cricketswaiting patiently for strangers to stroll by, for Carol to come homebegging for a cuddle to soft purr bylanguage that speaks his mind.
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A Brief History of Egyptian Cats
by Jim McKeown
H
oward Carter, the eminent archaeologist, had spent several seasons in Egypt searching for tombs in the Valley of the Kings. His benefactor, Lord Carnavon, had provided nearly $500,000 (in today’s money) to finance the project. Up until 1922, Carter had only a series of empty holes and dead end tunnels to show for his efforts. Carnavon had decided to withdraw his support. Carter begged for one more try. In 1922, he broke the seals on a tomb in the Valley of the Kings; he was about to enter a fantastic world. He dug a small hole into the chamber beyond the sealed doors and peered inside. He was not sure if any artifacts would be there, because he had seen false doors intended to confuse grave robbers many times. When asked what he saw, all he could manage was “Things, wonderful things.”
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The tomb he found eventually proved to be that of Tutankhamen an 18-year-old Pharaoh from the 18th dynasty of the New Kingdom approximately 3,300 years ago. Among the artifacts he found in this tomb were a number of jars, containers, and objects which featured lions. Statues of cats also were frequently found in many other Egyptian tombs. Apparently, cats played a much larger role than adornments for funerary jars and other objects. In Egyptian mythology, Bast – sometimes known as Bastet – was the daughter of the sun god Ra and a popular household goddess of love, sexuality, and childbirth. The Egyptians constructed an entire city around this cult. 300,000 cats, prized by the Egyptians and considered good luck charms, were mummified and buried in her honor
at Bubastis in the Nile Delta. The most important cat tomb cities besides Bubastis were Giza, Abydos, and Dendereh. Leopard skins and carved masks resembling cats also had a prominent place in the trove Carter uncovered. These ceremonial skins were worn as a garment partially covering the torso with the carved mask hanging at about waist level. Two of these skins were packed in boxes as part of the items Tut needed in the afterlife. One of these skins was genuine and the other a cloth version of a leopard skin. Kenneth C. Davis, author of Don’t Know Much About Mythology describes another cat figure, the lion-headed wife of the creator god, Ptah, Sekhmet. She was a warrior goddess whose name means “powerful” and she could breathe fire to protect her people. Interestingly,
she also serves up punishments to association with Bast, who had an other gods and goddesses. independent and wild streak of her own. Blalock believes the modern ccording to one website, tabby cat may be a descendent of www.richeast.org, “the cat- the original cats domesticated by human relationship dates back to the Egyptians. ancient times. The Muslim prophet Herodotus reported that Mohammed is said to have found a when a cat died, the occupants of cat sleeping on his robe, so he cut a the house where the cat died from hole in his robe rather than disturb natural causes would go into a deep the sleeping cat. Evidence of coex- mourning and shave their eyeistence between cats and humans brows. Other historians recount dates back to 6000 BCE from the tales of men who encircled a fire to island of Cyprus, where archaeolo- protect any curious cats from harm. gists found bones of cats, humans, Of course, Herodotus is known as and mice buried together.” the “Father of Lies,” so this one Once the Egyptians do- may be an apocryphal tale. mesticated cats, they were revered largely because they killed verany other cultures revered min associated with diseases even cats. The Norse goddess that long ago. To harm a cat was Freye was frequently depicted ridconsidered a great transgression. ing a chariot drawn by cats. Norse Some archaeologists believe the in- seafarers had cats on board their dependent nature of cats led to the ships to keep the rodent population
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down. So, for over 8,000 years, cats have held an important place in the hearts of homo sapiens. According to www.petside.com/article/cats-rule-now-most-popularpet-country cats are now the most popular pet in America. We prize them for their beauty, their intelligence, and their independence – just as the ancient Egyptians did and many cultures which preceded them.
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o the next time a cat jumps on your lap and demands a serious belly rub, remember, your pet might put in a good word for you with Bast or Freye.
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Crazy About Cats
Inside Louis Wain’s Fixation By Megan Miller
L
ouis Wain was crazy about cats, and not in a good way. Arguably the first of the anthropomorphic animal artists, Wain set the stage for followers such as C.M. Coolidge (painter of poker-playing dogs), Alfred Mainzer (dressed-up cat postcards), and William Wegman (photographer), to name but a few. He was born in 1860 to a textile trader and his wife, the only son of six children. He didn’t start school until later in his childhood, on the dubious advice of the family physician. He had been born with a cleft lip, and, perhaps, the wisdom was that he would be taunted. In any event, school didn’t hold much attraction for him; he was often truant and spent a good part of his time wandering around London making sketches. He eventually made it to the West London School of Art, and after graduation taught there briefly. When he was 20, his father died, making him head of the fam-
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ily. Somehow he managed to support himself, his mother, and his five sisters. By the age of 23, Wain was already an accomplished artist. He specialized in countryside scenes of his native England, including animals of all sorts. He freelanced doing drawings of dog shows and at one point in his career thought he might make a living doing dog portraits. He fell in love with and married his sisters’ governess, a scandal as she was ten years older than he. The marriage was a happy one, but short: his wife, Emily, developed breast cancer within three years. They adopted a kitten to keep her company. Wain sought to amuse his ailing wife by drawing pictures of it in fanciful, anthropomorphic poses. Emily, charmed by the drawings, urged him to submit them for publication in various magazines and newspapers. The public was equally charmed. Thus
began Wain’s fame and obsession with cats. Emily, alas, did not live long enough to see his fame bloom.
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ver the next 30 years Wain was a prolific producer. Fifteen of those years saw the publication of his own magazine, The Louis Wain Annual. His cats appeared in numerous periodicals, on postcards, and in children’s books. He even became president of The National Cat Club, which sought to raise the profile of man’s second-best friend. He still drew other animals, but cats were clearly taking over his life. Bad investments and the loss of his mother and sister seem to have been the catalyst for Wain’s decline into dementia. His cat drawings, once so playful and innocent, started to take on a darker tone. It could be seen mostly in the eyes – intense, watchful – in a word, mad. As he slid further away from sanity, he was hospitalized and ultimately sent to an asylum.
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is art took new directions as well and though it is often presented as a progression into chaos, in fact he drew differently as different phases of his mania took him; sometimes as in old days, and sometimes in his new, frenzied manner. For the most part, his asylum art is undated, and it would be difficult to assign a timeline to them.
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ue to his impoverished state, he initially went to a pauper’s ward. Upon discovering his situation, King George, Prime Minister Ramsay MacDonald, and H.G. Wells put together an appeal to the public to fund sending him to a more comfortable place. The public responded generously to their beloved cat artist, and he spent his final fifteen years in peace, mostly drawing cats. The prevalent theory is that Wain suffered from schizophrenia, and there has been a suggestion that it may have been caused by exposure to toxoplasmosis, a parasitic infection which is passed to humans by – yes – cats. Other theories center around the possibility that he had Asperger’s Syndrome, part of the spectrum of autism. There is an attention to detail in his later work that is suggestive of the hyperfocus seen in autistic patients, rather than the chaotic thinking generally associated with schizophrenia. We may never know.
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Kitten Play
(Poem for Daddy) by Michael Lee Johnson
Nikki visits daddy in the bathroom. Daddy urinates and Nikki watches.
Bathroom Cat by McGuire Quinn Irvine Hello Bathroom Cat How are you doing this morning? You are doing your flop on my foot You are doing your chirpy purr The same way you do Every morning
Kicks paws up into the sky like heaven boots. Rub my fussy stomach, rub. I got green eyes that look like dollar bills, daddy. If you looking into my eyes you will want to rub my tummy. My name is Nikki cat and I’m your best friend. I’ll be your best friend for a lot longer if you rub my ears, a lot. You can put kisses on my nose with your index finger. We have rituals, daddy. I know when we’re going to bed, cause I go by the bedroom door and I wait for you. These are the reasons to call me Nikki cat; these are the reasons we hug each other at night. We go to sleep and we pray we wake up in the morning, because we are Michael and Nikki cat.
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Lilian Jackson Braun, the Cat Who Writer by Gary Lee and Sharon Webb
L
ast year, the United States lost a beloved author, Lilian Jackson Braun, well known for her light-hearted series of “The Cat Who …” detective novels. She was almost 98. For those of us who are older, she is an inspiration. Her first book, “The Cat Who Could Read Backwards” was published in 1966, when she was 53. She quickly wrote three novels, waited 18 years, and then wrote the other 26 novels … at an age when most people are retired. Her fourth and fifth novels were nominated for awards, and the fourth through seventh made some profound changes in her characters’ lives, changing relationships and venue. Nominally, the protagonist is Merlin James Qwilleran (“Qwill”), who begins the series as a recently recovered alcoholic, disastrously divorced, a war veteran, and a former crime journalist. The series begins when Quill, recently fired for being drunk, moves from New York to an unnamed city (that looks like Detroit) in the mid-west, by accepting a reporting job at The Daily Fluxion. He is not a crime reporter at the new paper, however, but an art writer – a field he knows nothing about. Qwill is 6’2”, goes from his 40s to his 50s during the series, is described as looking melancholy or brooding, but witty and enjoyable company. His most distinguishing feature is his “luxurious moustache,” which is considered attractive by many women and also serves as a plot element – tingling when something is up. In the first book, the newly
transplanted Qwill ends up rooming with The Daily Fluxion’s controversial art critic, George Bonifield Mountclemens III, and his Siamese cat, Kao K’o-Kung (Koko), a genius detective in feline body. When Mountclemens is murdered, Qwill eagerly adopts Koko, and the beautiful partnership begins. In Braun’s second book, The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern, Qwill’s job involves reporting on the beautiful home of fashion designer George Tait and wife. After his wife dies, Tait kicks her Siamese (Yum Yum) out of the house. Qwilleran adopts Yum Yum to keep his beloved Koko company. That sets the stage for the remainder: Qwill has as many cats as the author! In Braun’s celebrated fourth and fifth books, written after an 18year hiatus, Qwill meets up with an old flame (remarried), moves into a new apartment, and becomes increasingly disenchanted with changes being made in his environment. Qwill and the cats take an extended vacation to Moose County so he can spend some time with his “Aunt Fanny” Klingenschoen. After “Aunt Fanny” suffers a fatal fall down the stairs, Qwill receives the shock of his life: she has left him her entire estate, but with the stipulation that he live in her mansion for at least five years. Qwill accepts the terms of the will, using most of the Klingenshoen fortune to endow worthy causes. In book six, The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare, Quill befriends local librarian Polly Duncan, who
n becomes the lingering love of his life. Although they choose not to live together, Qwill and Polly remain a devoted couple throughout the rest of the “Cat Who” series. The comfortable and considerate interaction between these lovable characters is a staple of all the remaining books in the series. Smart cat Koko continues to hone his remarkable sleuthing abilities, and Qwill eventually becomes better at understanding what Koko is trying to tell him. The last two-thirds of these books show Qwill as a happy and welldeveloped character surrounded by love and admiration. He and Koko repeatedly reveal small-town murderers, making Moose County a safer place for everyone. So remember: if someone tells you that you are too old to start something new, remind them of this grande dame of Detective Novels, who thought 53 was the purrrfect time to start and 73 was the best time to restart her career, making major improvements in her product. And then, like any good cat, just hiss at them and do whatever you intended to in the first place.
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The Feline Master T.S. Eliot’s Cat Imagery By Mandy Bray
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones— In fact, he’s remarkably fat. He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs, For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
I
have a confession to make—I’m not a cat person. I’d rather roughhouse with my Labs than risk life and limb attempting to pet a cat that purrs against my leg one moment and may claw at my face the next, but I do admit to a strange, inexplicable beauty and complexity in cats. For years, I have loved the feline imagery in the poems of T.S. Eliot, his depiction of their nimble, graceful movements and whimsical personalities. Not everyone knows that Eliot’s poems were the basis for the hit Broadway musical Cats, based primarily on his 1939 collection of poems titled Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. Eliot used the pseudonym “Old Possum” to write the playful poems to his godchildren, introducing them to characters including Old Gumbie Cat, Growltiger the Bravo Cat, Mungojerrie and Rumpelteaser, and Gus the Theatre Cat. It’s a regular Spoon River Anthology of cat lore, amusing and mischievous. In addition to the cat poems, Eliot is the master of literary sleight of hand. He was the first one to teach me the power of implied metaphor, through the third stanza of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”:
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The tickled image of fog moving as a cat through the night captured not only my fancy, but the imagination of copycats. In 1920, just one year after the publication of “Prufrock” by the Poetry Foundation, contemporary Carl Sandberg published this eerily familiar little poem titled “Fog”: The fog comes On little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city On silent haunches And then moves on.
In 1977, Andrew Lloyd Webber began composing the songs for Cats, based on Eliot’s Old Possum, a childhood favorite of his. Eliot’s widow gave permission for Webber to transform the songs into a stage musical, and in 1981 Cats premiered, immortalizing Eliot’s imagery into Broadway history. From the page to the stage, his words linger on like yellow smoke in passageways.
Elm Street’s Crazy Lady by Nazifa Islam
She kept sadness instead of cats. Not because she was allergic to kittens but because she couldn’t bear to be dubbed Elm Street’s Crazy Cat Lady. February 2013• bohemia • 29
Paw-sel und Me-al
by Gary Lee Webb Illustration by Gena Deeds-Page
W
e all know about the Thüringian Forest spanning the breadth of Germany during the Middle Ages, for its dark woods are the home of many stories. For those of you who did not spend the Middle Ages in the Thüringian Forest, let me explain. Think of the Ozarks, covered in tall pine and spruce, and in the Fall, many barren oaks. Think of the pungent scent of the oak leaves as you trod them underfoot, during the Fall. Like the Ozarks, everyone is related, and so there are only half a dozen names, repeated, over and over, since they are family names. Thus it should not surprise you, that the children, Johannes and Margaret, would prefer the names of their famous great-uncle and great-aunt: Hansel and Gretel. After all, who would not want to be connected with their famous ancestors who defeated the old witch? And so, their father started off in a good family, even if he was just a woodcutter in the midst of the Thüringian Forest. He began relatively well off, found a good wife, and they had two children. But those were the Middle Ages and war and plague were rampant. He lost his wife to the plague, and she was replaced by a gold-digger, interested in the old man’s money? Was she the evil step-mother? It mattered not, she was to the children. They were not her children, after all. When times were good, they were simply in the way, com30 • bohemia • February 2013
peting for her new husband’s attention. But when times were bad, they were expendable. And during the Middle Ages, times often were bad. Plague meant the woodcutter had few customers to sell to, few coins to bring home, and food became scarce. So scarce that the evil stepmother convinced her husband that they needed to get the children out of the house – to take them out into the middle of the forest and leave them there. If God wishes, he can save the children, but she and her husband cannot. And so begins our story … the children have been abandoned.
walking for hours, and I am hungry. And look … she has lots of cats, of many colors. Surely a witch would only have black cats. She must be a nice lady to take care of so many cats.” “Ach, Hansel, you are always hungry.” At this point, an old woman appeared in the doorway. “Don’t you be eating my house!” “But we are hungry!”, cried Hansel. “We have been walking all day and cannot find our way home.” “Who are your parents?” “The woodsman and his new wife” ohannes and Margaret were “You have come a long walking through the woods, try- way. Well then, come on in, share ing to figure out how to get home, my bread, and in the morning I when they spotted a marvelous shall take you home. It is too late sight. Their plans to leave a trail to go now.” had failed: Hansel had dropped “We shouldn’t go in, Hannice glittery rocks, which should sel. She will cast a spell on us!” have been easy to see when the sun “Ach, Gretel. You worry came up. He had forgotten that lit- too much. She promised us food, tle boys are not the only ones who and tomorrow she will take us back collect shiny rocks. There were home to Pappa,” many happy ravens in the forest Gretel sighed – she knew that morning, playing with their her brother was headstrong and new shinies. would walk in by himself. Much “Look Gretel, that house to her surprise, the interior of the appears to be made of gingerbread. house looked homey other than the See how the snow on the roof looks large number of cats, and the old like frosting!” woman dished them out some stew “Oh, Hansel, we should stay and added a large chunk of bread. away. Only an old witch would live “When you eat all of that, in such a house.” you can have dessert.” “But Gretel, we have been The old woman busied her-
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self eating … there was no conversation beyond grunts. She finished hers quickly, made up two beds, then busied herself watering cats. After the children finished their stew, the old woman pulled out a piece of iced gingerbread for each one. Hansel ate his right off, but Gretel secreted hers against future need. It had been a long day, and Hansel quickly crawled into bed and fell asleep. Gretel was slower … her mind was thinking about her fears … but eventually she too fell asleep.
T
he house was dark other than a glow from the top of the witch’s staff. Gretel found she could not move, just look in horror as the witch, garbed in black robes and a tall hat, searched her person. “Aha! she cackled, “I knew you had not eaten your dessert,” as she put the gingerbread on a counter. “Listen to your brother, he sleeps soundly. But you, you I had to waste a spell on. But for that, you get to watch!” Hansel snored away, totally ignoring the light from the staff and the witch’s voice. She dragged Gretel to a chair and propped her up to watch. She then started to intone a long chant, making mystical passes over Hansel. Gretel was horrified to see Hansel shrink, sprout hair, and become a large cat with white paws and a brown head and body. “Your turn dearie, he will wake hungry soon, now that he is no longer a boy.” Gretel could feel her body shrinking, changing, as the witch cast her spell, and the witch grabbed Gretel by the scruff of her furry neck. The witch put down the
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staff, cradled Hansel in her freed arm, and headed for the door. “Wake up, sleepy head. What do I call you. Oh I like your white mittens, you shall be called Paw-sel.” Walking outside, the bite of the cold dawn woke Paw-sel. He yawned and stretched as Gretel squirmed and tried to get away. “Smell that, Paw-sel,” thrusting Gretel next to his nose. “That is a nice yummy rat. I knew I was smelling a rat when you two arrived. Let’s give her a head start,” and she put Gretel down. “Forest is that way, Me-al.” And after a minute, “Go get her, Paw-sel. Be sure to play with your food!” A smile on her face, she said, “I do so enjoy the sight of children fighting.” The moral of the story is, if you are an old witch enchanting children, get a pair that fight. It’s the ones who work together that will kill you!
Feline Dreams by William Blackrose
“I had the dream again last night, Poppa…”
P
oppa looked at me, concerned, and shook his head. “Well, kitten, have you figured out what it means yet? From what I understand when you have a dream more than once, it is your subconscious trying to tell you something…” “I don’t know, Poppa. It’s not like it was a bad dream… It’s actually kind of a fun dream. I feel very free in it…” Poppa chuckled, and smiled at me. “Well, kitten; why not tell me about the dream this time. Maybe together we can figure out what it means.” I took a deep breath and sat down across from him, trying to figure out where to begin. “Well, it always starts out the same. I wake up in my bed, just like normal. I stretch my body like I always do, the way you call my cat stretch…” I giggled a little bit and blushed… “For some reason it felt different though, but still felt very nice… I stretch out each paw and let my body flex from my nose all the way to my tail…” Poppa looked up from his paper, a look of surprise on his face…but I just kept talking, knowing that if I stopped I wouldn’t have the nerve to start again.
“Once I finish stretching, I make my way down to the kitchen to grab something to eat. As usual, mama already has breakfast laid out for me when I get there. Tuna salad and ice cold milk, my favorite…” I flash Poppa an impish smile and continue… “I finish breakfast and I get ready for the day, but I notice something when I pass the hallway mirror. I almost miss it, but I realize what the strange thing is…” I got real quiet and whispered the next part… “Poppa, all my fur is gone… except for real long fur on top of my head and my ears are shaped funny…” Poppa’s paper was lying on the table now, and he was looking at me, blinking, without a word…I swallowed hard and continued… “I’m somehow walking only on my hind legs but not tipping over and my front paws are almost as strange as my back paws. My claws are gone, but each of my toes on my front paws is very long and can curl up around things. My rear paws are much larger… Maybe that’s why I can walk on them…” I looked at Poppa with concern plain on my face… “There’s more to the dream, but that is the part that is always the same in the dream…”
Poppa looked at me, a serious expression on his face… “Kitten, have you been listening to the stories again? The fantasy ones by the lady that lives down the street?” I blushed and dropped my eyes… “Poppa, her stories are always interesting, talking about a world different from what we have. Do you think it has something to do with my dreams?” “Kitten, I think it has a lot to do with the dreams. Humans aren’t real, she just made them up. Anyone who has half a brain would know that the creatures she describes could never survive in harmony with nature. I think you need to stop listening to her stories so much. At least, keep them to the afternoons and not before bed.” I smiled, relaxing a little as his smile returned. “I’ll have to remember that, Poppa. I know humans aren’t real. What I could never figure out about the stories is how would they stay balanced when they run without a tail?” Poppa chuckled and grinned at me… “That’s my smart Kitten, always the thinker… Just don’t let your imagination get ahead of you again.”
February 2013• bohemia • 33
Interview With Felis Domesticus by Megan Miller Illustration by Gena Deeds-Page
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ecently, Bohemia was given a rare opportunity to sit down and interview Felis Domesticus. The meeting took place in the late afternoon at the sunny spot by the window. F.D. was relaxed and gracious as we asked the questions that are on the minds of many of his followers.
Bohemia: Thank you so much for allowing us to talk to you today. Would you mind if I called you “Cat”? F.D.: Call me anything you like. Maybe I’ll respond. You never know. Bohemia: Uh…ok. Let me start then by asking, how long have felines been associated with people? Cat: The correct question would be how long have people been associated with felines. We were here first. Humans: about 6 or 7 million years. Cats: about 25 million. We finally decided you attracted enough food to be worth 34 • bohemia • February 2013
our notice. Bohemia: So it was the food, not companionship, that started the relationship? Cat: (Blank stare.) Bohemia: But you have to admit that companionship is a part of what draws us together…
cats purr when they’re injured, to calm themselves. New mothers purr to let the kids know where dinner is. Bohemia: Why do cats always go to the person in the room who hates cats?
Cat: We’re just perverse that way. Actually, that person is throwing off all sorts of cat-friendly signals Cat: Whatever. and they don’t even know it. No direct eye contact, ignoring us…it’s Bohemia: Why do you purr when tantalizing, it’s like catnip! you’re petted, then? Bohemia: I’m glad you brought Cat: (pause) Because it feels good. that up. What’s the deal with cat(another pause) Actually, cats purr nip…why are you staring at me? for any number of reasons. Some
Cat: What? Oh…nothing. (Licks Bohemia: I see. Do you eat what paw.) you catch? Bohemia: Catnip?
Cat: Sometimes. Other times it’s just for sport. Once in a while I Cat: (Closes eyes). Catniiiiiip bring something back for my human, but try as I might, they just (purrs, opens eyes) Got any? can’t seem to get the hang of hunting. Bohemia: Even the word has an effect on you. Bohemia: On the subject of humans, what do you find most irriCat: Yeah…if catnip is wrong, I tating? don’t wanna be right. Cat: They can’t seem to chillax. Your life expectancy is five times Bohemia: So what’s the attraction? mine, yet everything has to be done What is a catnip high really like? yesterday. Cat: Like being drunk for 10 minutes, with no hangover.
Bohemia: Yes, we could certainly learn some lessons from your approach to life.
Bohemia: Is it addictive?
Cat: Yeah, you could.
Cat: Nah. I can quit anytime. So, like, do you have any?
Bohemia: Clearly, you know how to relax…why do cats sleep so much?
Bohemia: If you don’t mind, I’d like to move on to another topic… you seem to be sure of yourself, yet when you’re out you want in, and vice versa. Could you explain what’s going through your mind at those moments?
Cat: Do I detect a little jealousy here? If you could sleep more, wouldn’t you? Bohemia: Possibly – but not 15 hours a day. Cat: (Yawn) Yeah, well, remember, you mostly see us during the day, which is our downtime.
Cat: I go outside to check on my domain. It takes less than a minute. Bohemia: Where did the expresThen I want back in. sion “A cat has nine lives” come from? Bohemia: What about your “doCat: You tell me. You guys origimain” are you checking? nated it. We only have one, as far Cat: Oh, you know, how many birds, where they are, what other cats have come through, the temperature, the weather, where the dogs are, that sort of thing. Like I say, a quick glance and I’m pretty much up to date. Think of it as an email check. It’s more interesting at night, ‘cos that’s when the nocturnals come out.
as I can tell. Are we done here? I’m late for a nap.
Bohemia: Uh, right. Thanks again for your time and the opportunity to speak with you. I’m sure our readers will be thrilled to learn that… Cat: (z-z-z-z-z) February 2013• bohemia • 35
A Cat May Look... By Genny Page Photos by Meagan Smith
I
“Achoo!”
sat, quietly, and watched in fascination as my human shuddered, and tunneled deeper into her fuzzy cocoon. The different patterned squares rippled as she pulled them over her shoulder. Poor human. Her name was Gabby, and I had been taking care of her for ages now. From the moment I took her into our new home. I blinked at her, hopefully – waiting to see if she would lie quietly this time. Humans should do that more often. They are silly, little pets... but fairly likeable. I could not turn her away, this little queen – well that is what I called her. It made sense. She called me a queen – and that was true. So I called her a queen. Now that was true, too. Because I said so. “Achoo!” She trembled and reached to pet me, mewing in that silly, complex way she has. I wondered, vaguely, if it meant something to her. I arched into her hand, purring, contentedly. ‘Good human. Good, little queen.’ 36 • bohemia • February 2013
I sometimes felt that she could almost speak... Her hands were shaking, and soon she left off petting me. Without this comfort I resorted to patrolling the bedside. ‘I should pick out another one,’ I thought. ‘Another human. Then you will have someone your own size to play with.’ I stalked over her feet, affording only the slightest expression of distaste when her tremors nearly threw me from the bed. ‘I should find her a tall human maybe... Oh what do they call those dark, lean ones? Italian! I should choose a nice Italian male probably long-hair – and see if they get along.’ Quietly, I took up my post
by her left hand. It needed washing. I obliged. ‘What would you do without me?’ I wondered outloud, cleaning her palm carefully. “What do you want, kitty cat? What are you after now?” It was almost like she could speak. A few minutes later, after her hand smelled clean enough, I once again began my patrol. I stalked around her, growling at the coughs and sneezes that assailed her – just waiting for one of them to make a wrong move. None of them did. After a while I noticed that the human was in an uneasy doze. I watched her dreams flit
by, and hissed at those that scared her. There was one about her family that made her very sad... so I walked over, licked her face, and sat on her until it passed. What would I do with her if I could not see dreams? What would she do with me? Poor human. ‘You need a new toy,’ I murmured, looking at her sleeping face. ‘Perhaps a mouse or... no... you didn’t take to the last one I brought you. Maybe a dog. But you’d have to promise to wash it, and brush it, and take it for walks. The second you fail to do that, I will send it right back – you know that, don’t you?’ But of course she didn’t know that. She was still sleeping peacefully – her bad dreams sent away. I licked my paws at a job well done.
‘You know, soon I shall have to go find you that Italian long-hair. You just seem so bored on your own.’ I looked down at her face, sitting on her chest and neck. It was a testament to her dream-state that she did not wake up at all. ‘I will look after you. And feed you, and wash you. Poor, little human. Poor Gabby.’ Just then Tom came into the room licking something off his whiskers – I cared not what. Stopping, he gave me an odd look. ‘Why do you do that,’ he asked. ‘She’s not even awake... why sit there watching her?’ ‘Well...’ I smirked, just slightly. ‘You know the old saying.’ I settled down on her chest, purring, quietly. ‘...A cat may look at a queen...’
February 2013• bohemia • 37
Double-O-Cats By Kelly Digh
To the outside, inexperienced eye, the saviors of the world might look like two ordinary housecats. The two of them might look at you a little funny, like they're sizing you up as a toy or a bowl of Meow Mix; that's not far from the truth. They're sizing you up, all right--to see if you're a threat. Most people aren't, and so two heads lay back down unconcernedly and you're dismissed with a flick of a tail or the twitch of ears and whiskers. Once in a while, though… It starts out relatively sim38 • bohemia • February 2013
ply. Once they've given you a good sniff-over, they arise. Like Moby Dick breaching the surface, a large black cat rises from his bed and fixes his green eyes upon you. You can see a white patch on his chest, almost like a badge. His name is Sam, short for Samhain; his code name, Brudder. This gets the attention of his partner. A smaller, brown-tabby-looking mixed breed girl who is skinny, long of limb and deceptively quick. It's easy to underestimate this lady. She is Maggie, short for Margaret May; code name, Little
Sister. Brudder is obviously the senior partner of the team; he remains still as a statue until Little Sister has stretched and concluded her own threat assessment. She, too, senses danger. The operation commences. Little Sister shoots off the table like Bruce Wayne on a Batpole, and Brudder is hot on her tail. Attending first to security, the team makes several high-speed passes around familiar territory (usually every room in the house) to make sure there are no breaches.
Once the security check is done, the team splits up. Little Sister is in charge of defenses, and she proceeds to litter the floor with mines. Hard plastic toys, balls with bells and spikes, milk carton pull tabs, and her secret weapon: Jolly Ranchers hard candies. Brudder, meanwhile, is on guard duty. Rather than be subtle, Brudder makes it utterly, crystalline clear that you are under feline surveillance. His eyes remain locked on you until you draw near, and he attaches to your ankles. Weaving in and out, he directs you exactly where he wants you, then he jumps onto your lap or your shoulder to make sure you stay there. Then comes the fun part. While Little Sister patrols the perimeter, Brudder begins the internal search. Careful kneading and palpating reveals weaknesses in your internal organs as well as other soft spots, such as arthritic knees, swollen joints, sprains and strains, or over-used muscles. Each weakness is carefully cataloged for future exploitation, should the need arise. Most threats are subdued at this point, because this is when Brudder brings out his arsenal. First he yawns deliberately wide, exposing a set of fangs that dip well below his lip line and which are visible even after he closes his mouth. Then a rare fit of grooming brings out the Krueger Paw; a large, black foot with five razorsharp claw-knives capable of drawing blood with a single swipe. You can do the math from there; that's four paws with five claws for twenty sharp objects, plenty to cow even
the most intrepid threat to feline security. A loud, sharp meow draws Brudder's attention away from you now that you are nullified; Little Sister is calling for help. With a languid stretch, he exposes his tail to you, an expression of his confidence in your passiveness. A single flying leap takes him out of your sight, and he is off to the next threat. They are crawling all over the walls. Small, invisible-to-human-eyes monsters are swarming on the walls, the ceiling, the corners. Brudder and Little Sister huddle briefly together, staring at the wall and the ceiling for many long minutes to try and decide what these monsters are, and why they have attacked this home. You can't help but notice what they're doing, and it makes you a little bit nervous that they are now staring at the wall with the same intensity that they were just staring at you with, but you clear your throat and pretend that it isn't happening. They're smarter than you are. Little Sister remains in place, keeping an eye on the unseen threats, while Brudder disappears under the bed. There is a portal there, that no human can see, and while he is in there, he receives knowledge on how to deal with this situation. Flying back out from under the bed, his tail is twice normal size and his fur is standing on end from the portal's energy output, but it simply looks as if he's been terrified. Rocketing out of the bedroom, he nearly tips the recliner over when he vaults to the very
top of the chair and bats at the wall with the Krueger Paw. Little Sister throws herself at the wall, jumping as high as she can to push more of the things into Brudder's viciously swiping foot, and soon, the invisible creatures have been demolished and for the moment, Double-0-Cat and his sidekick can curl up in their bed together, waiting for the next crisis. But even their moments of relaxation are exciting, because there is a human that caters to their every whim: me. A jack of all trades, I do multiple duty as legs, opposable thumbs, chef, maid, mine removal personnel, groomer, and on occasion, drug dealer because I control the catnip bag and the milk cup. To reward the team for a job well done, a small hit of the 'nip is dispensed to each cat, along with pets, treats, and belly rubs. Brudder turns instantly from vicious agent to full-on love machine. Little Sister likes to indulge alone, and then to later engage her partner in some light wrestling or nose-to-tail silent communing. The final touch to this beautiful day is the binky. Both cats prefer to lie on blankets inside the bed, because they are hothouse orchids. After all they do to keep the house safe from danger, it's no big deal to provide what they want. A fleecy blanket, a camouflagepattern Snuggie, even a Disney Princesses beach towel, it doesn't matter. Something soft and warm, and suddenly Double-0-Cat and his sidekick are simple cats once more, purring their love for family and home. February 2013• bohemia • 39
S W F S e e k s C at Lo v er
by Erica Photiades
T
his time, it’s going to work. I have to tell myself this, because, well, like, it hasn’t been so good in the past, you know? This time, I’m ready. I have all my topics arranged by color: red for things that make me angry, yellow for things I like, blue for things that are cool, and green for stuff I don’t like to eat. I’m so organized, it just HAS to work, right? I flip down my mirror for one last look. Smoky eyes. Red (but not too red!) lips. Hair behaving itself. I am beautiful. I believe in the power of my dreams. Somewhere in this long line of frogs has to be a prince that I can cuddle, and snuggle, and shed my love upon for the rest of our days. I’m early. There’s no one in the coffee shop who looks like Brad’s picture, so I stand in line, hoping that my skinny jeans will get his attention and he’ll be dying to talk to me by the time I turn around. I order a cappuccino so I can play with the foam while I wait. I just love milk. “Emily?” a tentative voice behind me calls. I pretend I didn’t hear him the first time. I want to hear him say my name again. There’s a hand on my shoulder, lightly tapping. Makes me all tingly. I want to dart away to a dark corner and watch him while he sleeps. “Oh, hi! Are you Brad?” My voice cracks as it swings up to meet his name. Ouch. Strike one, by the look on his face. “Yeah. I was like, calling your name five times. I thought you were deaf, but then, you spoke so good on your video, so I dunno.”
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“Well! Pull up a chair, buddy!” Another squelch on his face. “So,” I say, “Tell me three of your favorite things EVER!” “Uhhh….could I get a coffee first? I’m like, really tired. Had to work late last night.” “Sure!!!” Another crack in my voice, another wince from Brad. “You should get a cappuccino, they have the best foam. Sometimes, I like to roll it around on my tongue while it dissolves into little tiny milk proteins and gets all sticky in my mouth!” “Right,” says Brad. “Do you like cats?” I blurt to his backside. I can’t help myself. He doesn’t answer. Must be the noise from the coffee grinder. That was one of the topics on my red list. I hate how it covers up all meaningful conversations. I am fidgeting with all the things I want to tell Brad when he gets back. Brad doesn’t sit down. In fact, he never sits down. I’m not sure he’s looked me in the face. I wish he would, maybe he would reconsider this next part. “Look, Emily. You’re like, really hot and stuff, but I just—no. I know about your thing with cats. You went out with my friend Mike last week and he told me. I just, couldn’t believe that it was true, and I was bored, so you know, I looked you up. But, he wasn’t kidding, so, I have to go. I gotta work tonight.” He’s out the door before I can say anything. The jerk knew I had a mouth full of milk, too! I hate when people know you’ve got something in your mouth and can’t
answer. That was topic number three on the red list. Well, I’m going to add another topic to the red list right now: Brad. I can’t believe that’s the third time already! I don’t appreciate being passed around the internet community like a fuzzy chain letter with cats dancing across the border. Ooo, that would be cute! Good thing I scheduled one more date for tonight. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t work out with Brad. He wasn’t that cute, anyway. Smelled like dog. I have an hour to kill before Ryan shows up. I’m getting sad now, because everyone is so mean to me. In school, people used to draw mustaches on my Lisa Frank cat folders, but not on the Lisa Frank folders with unicorns, and unicorns are stupid. They don’t even exist. I used to have to get new folders every week because some Picasso with a sharpie would turn my kitties into Hitler whenever I got up for a Kleenex. This happened even in college! And I’m tired of everyone being freaked out by my collection of Beanie Babies. I have a prize-winning collection! I even have a certificate that says I have collected ALL the cat Beanie Babies that TY makes. I think that shows I have commitment, loyalty and good taste, all being winning qualities of a good girlfriend. “I agree.” Says a voice be-
hind me. Wait, was I talking out loud this entire time? “Yes,” says the voice, “You were.” I turn around, “Are you Ryan?” I squint. For some reason, there’s a halo of light around him, and I can’t see his face. “No,” says the voice. “I’m the barista. My name is Sam. Sometimes they call me ‘Fluffy’, because my hair won’t lay down. I’m also called ‘Mr. Pickles’, because I eat them on everything. I see you in here every week, and sweetie, I just can’t take it anymore.” “You can’t?” I say. I know what comes next. Mr. Pickles is going to ask me to leave. What an adorable nickname! “No. I can’t.” He leans forward and I can see him clearly. OMG he’s perfect! Green eyes, small pink nose, yeah, fluffy hair, but I can deal with that. “Please, Fluffy,” I plead, making my eyes as wide as I can, “Mr. Pickles-Sam, whichever you prefer. Don’t make me leave. I have note cards. We can talk about whatever you want. Play “Go Fish” with them. Please, don’t make me leave!” Sam doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he sits down in the empty chair across from me and gazes into my eyes. “I can’t take it anymore, because I love cats too.” February 2013• bohemia • 41
Cats on the Edge By Megan Miller
Never satisfied with the norm, Bohemia went out over the fence and down the alley to seek out the fringe world of felinedom. And boy howdy, did we find it! Presented here for your elucidation and edification (two fancy words we like to throw around) are some different ways cats spend their nine lives.
Glow-in-the-Dark Cats
Venus, the Chimera Cat An internet sensation last year, Venus looks something like the Batman foe “Two-Face”. Without genetic testing, it’s unknown whether Venus is a true chimera, sometimes caused by the fusing of two individuals in the womb, or whether her coloring is a rare expression of her own genes. Either way, she’s a very strikinglooking kitty.
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Scientists studying the transfer of genes that protect against feline HIV inserted a bioluminescent jellyfish gene into the mix so that they could track whether their gene manipulation was successful. The result: a cutting-edge tool in the fight against AIDS, and you can also read by them at night.
The Tattooed Cat (CAT-VEAT: As cat lovers, we do not approve of or condone the following activity.) Russian artist Timur Rimut wanted his cat Coco to sport a tattoo just like his, so with the assistance of a veterinarian (which begs an entirely new set of questions), he put her under and gave her one. No word on what Coco thinks of the whole thing. Coco incidentally is a Sphinx, a breed of cat that is naturally hairless.
The Monastery of Saint Nicholas of the Cats Turning with relief from the hubris of artists, we find ourselves in Cyprus. The Monastery of Saint Nicholas of the Cats was established over 2,000 years ago. At the time, Cyprus was overrun by poisonous snakes, making worship there not exactly serene. Constantine the Great’s mother, Saint Helena, suggested importing 1,000 cats to the island to fight the snakes. During the 1500’s, the cats were trained to go hunt serpents at the tolling of one bell, and to come dine at the sound of two. The monastery’s fortunes have risen and fallen, but it remains as a sanctuary for Cypriot cats without a home.
Japanese Cat Houses Cat lovers who don’t have a cat can pay for the privilege of hanging out with cats at cat houses in Japan. (OK, they’re cat cafés actually, if you want to get all technical about it.) There are over 30 throughout Japan, some specializing in particular breeds. Black cats, considered lucky, are particularly popular. Café patrons pay between $5 -$10 to enjoy the company of cats while sipping tea and eating cat-shaped cookies.
February 2013• bohemia • 43
The Horton Duo The Horton Duo is one of Waco’s favorite bands. They play an assortment of world music including Celtic, Spanish, Greek, and Portuguese. They also do jazz standards, movie themes, Broadway, and The Beatles. facebook.com/HortonJazzDuo Send them a personal message to book them for weddings, community events, banquets, etc.
Lottie’s Cookies Hand-Decorated Sugar Cookies for any occassion Lottie 254-214-5725 Like on facebook @ lotties.cookies
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Contributors JoAnne Bauer holds degrees in Communication, Special Education, and Spirituality. She’s coauthored a book for Cambridge University Press and written nationally-presented research papers. JoAnne received awards as an educator, community leader, environmental activist and visual artist. William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual perspectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as
style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His current works include “Twin Minds”, “Tears of Kharon”, and his newest project “Bloodfire”. Gena Deeds-Page is a Wacobased artist, illustrator and mural painter who madly loves creating things. She lives with her husband, Bryan and two grown daughters, with whom she shares a love of life, art, theatre, music, books and writing, and a tenuous connection to the 21st century. Soli Deo gloria
Genny Page is a part-time college student who immerses herself in music, literature, and art. She writes stories, poems, songs and tumblr rants with fairly equal eloquence and regularity. She has a dog. She does not have a cat. Kelly Digh is a 35 year old writer from North Carolina. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, scary movies, making soap, and scrapbooking. She lives with her mother and two cats, and is currently pre- paring to survive the zombie apocalypse. February 2013• bohemia • 45
After a rather extended and varied second childhood in New Orleans (street musician, psych tech, riverboat something-or-other, door-to-door poetry peddler, etc.), Matt Dennison finished his undergraduate degree at Mississippi State University before attending UT Austin for one year. He currently lives in a 107-year-old house with “lots of potential” and can be reached at columbusmatt@ cableone.net. Michael Haeflinger has never owned a cat. He lives in Philadelphia. michaelhaeflinger.com Ed Higgins: My poems and short fiction have appeared in various print & online journals. My wife and I live on a small farm South of Portland, OR. where we raise a menagerie of animals including two whippets, a manx barn cat (who doesn’t like whippets), an emu named To & Fro, and a pair of alpacas named Machu & Picchu. Nazifa Islam’s poetry and paintings have appeared in a number of publications, including Anomalous Press, A Baker’s Dozen, and Flashquake. Her debut poetry collection is forthcoming from Whitepoint Press. She frequently updates her blog Thoughts Interjected and is currently pursuing a Master of Fine Arts at Oregon State University. Cynthia Jacobi: I write to create, to discover the unknown, to embrace the knowing, to accept the mystery. I dwell where forest and water spirits are eternal. Cats: beware of coyotes. My poetry has been published in Tuesday.
46 • bohemia • February 2013
Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner of custom imprinted promotional products and apparel: www.promoman.us, from Itasca, Illinois. He is heavily influenced by: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Irving Layton, Herman Hesse, Krishnamurti, Charles Bukowski, Leonard Cohen, and Allen Ginsberg. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises. Michele Karas is a freelance writer and an associate copy director for a major book publisher in Manhattan. Her poems have appeared online and, most recently, in the magazine Chronogram. She is currently pursuing her Master’s in Creative Writing at The City College of New York. Megan Miller gets older every day, but apparently no wiser. Having embraced the path of the Cosmic Fool, she and her husband are currently touring the country in their RV. When America has nothing left to show them, they intend to settle down and live a life of quiet obscurity in a small town. Sometimes she writes things. Darrell Petska I’m a Midwesterner able to scrounge up one concrete link to Texas: my Sis lives in Dallas. But if you forgive my cold weather roots and choose to use my poem, my bio could read: Darrell Petska is a Wisconsin poet who once worked as a psychiatric tech/social worker, nursing home evaluator, and university editor. His poetry has
appeared in the San Pedro River Review, The Red River Review, and scissors and spackle. Erica Photiades is a transplant to Waco from Detroit, Michigan. Having never been to Texas, she moved to Waco last year to teach 6th grade orchestra. She tremendously enjoys the absense of snow and abundance of 60+ degree days. She has played the violin for 22 years. 20 years young and a lover of the arts, for Meagan Smith is an artist herself. Her artistic lifestyle consists of playing a few instruments, singing and writing. Her artistic lifestyle also includes painting, drawing, or concaucting anything that can be cut, pasted, sprayed, or hot glued. She also really enjoys taking photographs, doo wop jams, her vinyl collection, and her Fender. Her biggest dream is to literally live out of her vehicle one day traveling from city to city- playing music and sharing her art with anyone that’s willing to check it out.
in Wales (UK) and the US, as well as published in national and international journals, such as the Linden Avenue Literary Journal, the Brooklyn Review, the Sugar Mule, the Taj Mahal Review (India), The Southwestern Review, and Life is but a Verse – well-rhymed and bold (Germany). Gary Lee Webb is a 15-year resident of Waco. He lived on three continents and visited four. As a result he speaks many languages … badly. His credits include a wide variety of interests, helping with conventions and contests, over 180 public speeches, and both non-fiction and fictional publications. Cyndi Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of two. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She has been a volunteer for Waco Center For Youth for four years.
Devin Stroud: I was carved from pine on a vacant Mississippi night. I was raised by Dionysian ninja turtles and mentored by gloomy Apollonian grunge bands. A German born in South Africa, Ronja Vieth just finished her Ph.D. in American Gothic Literature in Texas and is looking for a life which fruitfully combines teaching, traveling, and writing. She has read several pieces of poetry and nonfiction at conferences
February 2013• bohemia • 47
Belle Canto By Michele Karas
Another day of mourning after a night of thrashing reprieve, unexpected crystalline dustings on the limbs of towering pine trees. I think of the aria di Wally from the opera by Catalani, “Ah well then! I shall go far away,” she sings, “Oh from my mother’s cheerful house…” then of a fleeting moon-bright salute flashing in my windowpane of the tail of a bobcat I once saw stalking her way across our property, a creature whose every cell emanated a soundless belle canto of existence, her mellifluous, pace, measured, deliberate phrasings and skill thawing the brittle, cold, shimmering atmosphere with her life-giving breath; of how two perfectly matched kits quietly appeared at the forest’s edge, falling in stride behind her, synchronizing their steps with those of their chorus master’s, cue the aria again as they steal into the wetlands: “There, somewhere in the white snow…” The forest now alit by sunrise, “There amongst the clouds of gold…where hope, hope…is sorrow.”
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48 • bohemia • February 2013