Cleo

The sleek black cat prowls around the house, investigating each corner, parading an air of certainty, aloof to necessity, desiring only to eat ocean fish and, if possible, be let outside, where she can chew grass under the thorny rosebush. Cleo has lost so much weight she really is this transparent. This is not a blurry photograph. As depicted in an earlier photo in this blog, Cleo is a dadaist cat, she is the anti-cat, the anti-expression of catness: and therefore, she is the echt cat. She stares into space with the intent of conforming reality to her will. Fortunately for humanity and the other cats, she has a short attention span and is easily distracted. Plus she's susceptible to being picked up and carried around the house. Connoisseurs of photography may notice that this photo has things in common with photos of Patti Hearst in her symbionese liberation army get up: seemingly blurry, muted color. This photo is also similar to Gerhard Richter's paintings of the Bader-Meinhof gang. In many ways Cleo shares some similarities with this gang. She's single mindedly devoted to the over throw of the capitalist corporatist state - with this difference: frequent naps. In this Cleo is far ahead of most revolutionary thinkers: think how different the French, the 1917, the Chinese, the Cultural, the American, the Glorious [British] revolutions would have been if the directorie-communtard-brainthrust had begun a vigorous program of naps. What if someone barged into a bank and demanded that everyone lie down on the floor and cover their eyes, getting into a nice place, a safe place, and take a break? After pondering the great issues of the day, I don't think that a national day of prayer is needed so much as a national nap time. This is the lesson Cleo has for us. A revolution. A revolution we can confidently sleep through.