She: A switch, a twitch, a switching blade. A blaze burning with incredible accuracy. (Vignette #3)

A glass of whisky, or tomato juice, on a small table that has only three legs.

The glass is encompassing one of those two liquids and glittering in a harsh afternoon light. 

A black cat is sitting on a pile of coats. It jumps up over the glass, and lands. Looks to the left, to the sound of footsteps. To the right it's tail moves like a switchblade and knocks over the glass, staining the carpet a darker shade, once lime green, now more like a tank in the army.

A girl with a line of bruise-like purple zinc on each cheek walks by in a bikini, the colour of a banana.

Not only does she have this bikini but she has the distinct stare of Daria, and the hair of Daria. No, she’s not Daria. Yes, she has that bikini.

She holds within each step and with each thought; serenity, cultivation, deadpan humour, grace and good sense.

Good sense, no nonsense,

She doesn't have time for bullshit.

She has read Hannah Arendt.

So now, like a black cat, with a banana peel, and a switchblade,

she arches her back slightly

and cuts the banana with incredible accuracy,

each piece of peel divided evenly, or at least, uneven, in the exact way she intended it.

If she were to speak, she would speak with ease,

everything would make sense, every reason, every pretence, 

for every cut, every scratch, an ‘ouch’ without a flinch 

or, just a mundane flinch, mundane cut, mundane scratch

Daria-like stare, Daria-like hair.

Everything visible, peeled,

Bare in it's clarity.

If she had long eyelashes under her eyes, they would not get in the way of perfectly seeing, exactly for what it is, the bikini below her. Neither would a whisker, neither would a whisper of criticism from any numbat or dumbcat who thought they knew whatever, whatever, they thought they knew.

Her mind defined by it's self chosen activity,

she focuses on control rather than neutrality.

Thinking of placing the banana peel into a bin, thinking, not the recycling bin, the garbage bin

recycling/garbage

garbage/recylcing

thoughts/feelings

The divide of thinking

and of feeling

-

Sitting on the clothes heap, is the mind of the cat. 

It's watching her walk,

then it's body spreads out, heavy, minding it's business, purring, the sound of cognition, thinking, almost feeling, dreaming of feeling, 

Something welling up amongst the wavelike sounds of the purrrrr, growing, spreading, almost feeling

-

(The divide 

Of thinking: Mind)

She is watching the cat, annoyed, judging, willing

to quieten the cat's purr

(And

Of feeling: Soul)

In her bikini, she walks, and she thinks, and she finds, the soul and the mind seem very different.

In her mind, she thinks, the cat's scrawny. Too pale. But it'll sleep here, anyway. 

It'll move in it's sleep, scratch the walls slightly as it dreams, the scratch ever so slightly changing the shape of the room, creating a dent in the establishment of this small world. This is ok.

What's not ok, is the sounds. The purring calms her, but it's miaow, it's screech, puts her on edge.

She knows she shouldn't care for the sounds of the cat.

But it's like a taste she can't get out of her mouth.

The soul, passions and emotions

It is that part of her cutting the banana peel, but when the switchblade switches and changes course and creates horrible, natural, seductive, strangely appealing, accidental ridges.

It's a chaotic jumble of broken glass and carpet stains, a cat's tail we cannot control.

It's the moment her bikini falls off onto the floor, her cheeks turn red, she picks it up, flustered, cannot tie it back on fast enough.

Cannot control the tail end of the things.

Tail end, behind the part of your body where your eyes are, where they’re looking, but unseeable, able, but uncontrollable, 

behind and attached,

Lagging,

she can’t control the enactment of these happenings behind her brain.

Still, she wears a bikini the colour of a banana peel, 

She tries to keep up her Daria-like stare, her Daria-like hair.

She wants to take the bikini off sometimes, then sometimes, she wants puts it back on. 

She does both of these things. 

She's not sure why she's taking it off.

She's not sure why she's putting it on.

She is overwhelmed in the somewhat sporadic repetition.

She's thinking, it’s just a decision. 

She looks at the glass, half empty, half broken, on the floor. 

Of what's not seeped into the carpet, she gulps the last drops of the whiskey, or tomato juice. Whatever it is. She doesn't care.

On the other side of the room, still, she can hear the cat, is seems even more evident now that she shouldn't care about it’s wailing, but she scowls, she flinches.

She rubs her hands together, nervously. Then they're very static, until for a small moment they're held over her ear, to block out the sound of the cat. 

Passively, silently

she is overwhelmed.

But she has learnt how to contort her flinches almost always, to the tilt of her head, to a long drawn out sigh.

But she puts the peel of the banana back on again,

To conceal.

It doesn't look like she's overwhelmed.

Sturdy, she stands,

As though she has the power to no longer hear the cat's screeching.

With her Daria-like stare, Daria-like hair.

She arches her back.

She tries to hold in each step and with each thought; serenity, cultivation, deadpan humour, grace and good sense.

She has read Hannah Arendt.

She is a black cat,

She is a banana, peeled,

She is a switch, turning a twitch, a switching blade, into a blaze, 

Burning with incredible accuracy.

Yet, underneath her,

A pool of broken glass, a stain of tomato juice, or whiskey.

The cat's purr, it's screech, coming in and out in waves.

Good sense, nonsense, she is determined to find the balances

of incredible accuracy.

Of controlled concealment.

Daria-like stare, Daria-like hair.

Passively, silently, overwhelmed.

Peeled secretly, always, always, putting the peel back on. 

Daria-like stare, Daria-like hair,

kept with incredible accuracy.

Notes:

This needs some major editing still. It was written after reading of Hannah Arendt's theories of her own, and other's, psychological control internally, regarding thinking/feeling.  Particularly in times of great suffering or distress.

Arendt seems adamant about the distinction between the two (thinking/feeling), while still acknowledging the lack of power we have over controlling feeling through thought. 

She writes, in parts, about the ability we have, however, to conceal feelings. And not to over-dramatise or emphasise them.

The same day, I was trying to write a scene of a woman, a black cat, and a banana, peeling.

In the process  my aim grew into focusing on the woman's ability to conceal her feeling, even after only extremely minor distresses and discomforts in this room/situation.

-

Particularly in the people around me, there's often such heightened sensitivities to the tiniest things, and the smallest filters for what needs to be revealed about how we feel about them. 

The level of discipline in balancing thought/feeling that seems to come through in Arendt's writing is incredible, but seems somewhat unattainable. Though certainly an admirable example.

Though how much is necessary? How much sensitivity, empathy, and raw emotion really needs mediating, if any at all?

This 'scene' became an exploration of those thoughts 

"Eva Emerged. In her waking life she was enviably confident, comfortable in her body in a way I could not imagine. Her ease in the world was obvious. Because of this she was able to be kind to people. There was no need to guard her own position, to convince herself that she was equal to others, because she was certain that she was." 

(From The Strays, by Emily Bitto)

(Above: Nico&Antione, 1966, origin unknown)