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Paper Moons

December 21, 2019 · by Oliver Gray

I spent an hour last night with my hand on her heart, feeling it feebly bump, telling me it was probably time. She’d grown thin from renal failure, but those eyes, they still burned with that distinct feline conviction.

I think people who say they don’t like cats misunderstand their power. While dogs are rarefied ideals of energy and optimism that encourage us to be our best selves, cats are much more humanistic, prone to moodiness and fits of fancy.

Dogs are motivational posters. Cats are mirrors.

Pandora – Dora for short – was my secret therapist of 13 years. I can’t even remember how many personal truths I whispered to her, knowing her judgement was silent, and her silence absolute. I’d lie on the floor next to her, talking about all the hardest and worst things in life, and her yellow eyes would just stare back, gently. My stresses would fall into her fluff. Her powerful purrs reverberating against the rhythm of my heart.

She saved me more times than she knows. Part of the adult I am is the work of that cat, how she healed my heart, and warmed me, physically and emotionally.

She was my first trial at being a “dad.” The first thing my wife and I loved together, outside of ourselves. The first living creature I nurtured and raised from kitten to crone. I’ve loved and lost other family cats in my life, but Dora was wholly mine. My responsibility. My companion. My feline extension. She taught me about patience and temperament, all things I use as I raise my actual human daughter.

An accidental tutor that cat, years of tutelage in hairballs and head hugs.

We cry for the lost because of what they leave missing in us. A brush against the leg in the morning. An after work enthusiastic meow-borne greeting. As she passed today, left me one ally shorter in the literal cold of the winter, I feared one of the lighthouses flooding light onto the darkness of my mind had been extinguished.

In the short term, the shadows close in. But I know Dora’s spirit – those years of white fur and bright eyes – have permanently rolled back the fog on my psyche, and all I need is to think of that little face to arc a beam of light across even the saddest days.

Dora’s favorite song was “It’s only a Paper Moon” (the Bing Crosby version). She especially liked it when I’d whistle it at the highest pitch possible. If I couldn’t find her – inside our out – one chirp through the chorus and she’d come running.

While I know the song by heart musically, I’d never really considered the lyrics much until today.

Love for a pet is reciprocal in so much as you believe it is. Some people might think it a superficial love, or a lesser love,

But it wouldn’t be make-believe

If you believed in me

I’ll miss you kiddo. Until the next time your purrs and my heart meet

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Brew Fiction: Twice A Maharaja

April 25, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

He knew it was a bad idea to split his soul again, but with the curved blade inching nearer to his heart and the garlicky, bearded breath of his murderer beating down on his face, there weren’t many other options.

He closed his eyes, whispered in a language long forgotten by man, and felt lightning blast through his veins. For an uncountable flash he was a bolt, pure power, a god incarnate.

When he opened them again, he was looking down at his old body; feeble, mangled, gasping through the blood and tears of a life about to end. He locked eyes with the white and hazel that had been his for 70 some years, watching the confusion unfold as the assassin tried to understand that he had, thanks to the Maharaja’s hidden talents, just murdered himself.

A copper pan fell and clattered on the floor, and the king leapt back, bloody kukri held out in front of him, still dripping lethal red warning. This body wasn’t as young as he’d hoped his next would be, but it was lithe and flexible, built to run and climb and kill. He lowered the blade and slipped behind a nearby pillar of ornately carved sandstone, hoping to catch a glimpse of the unlucky voyeur.

Silhouette sprawled across the bedroom floor in furniture and curtain shaped cut-outs of pale, lunar glow. The moon was full and fierce but half the room remained pitch and hidden, plenty of space for another assailant to hide. He eyed the corners behind the massive royal bed warily, for any slight sign of unwelcome movement.

Shiny fur, more obsidian than matte, slinked through the night, weaving in and out of shadow like it was made from, or part of, the darkness. Two jaundiced eyes ruined the perfected camouflage. The cat silently jumped onto the king’s table, disrupting the maps and military figures he’d been obsessing over only a few hours earlier.

“Oh, it’s just you?” He reached out and let the cat sniff his fingers. The digits were knobby extensions of an ugly hand, hairy, scarred, betraying a life of poverty and thuggish petulance. It had been so long since he inhabited another, that the sudden unfamiliarity of his limbs made him feel dizzy, and he grabbed the edge of the table to keep from falling.

The sudden movement scared the cat, who darted to safety under the bed. The king knew he needed to eat and rest, but the scene in the bedroom had to be cleaned up before the servants came to preen and dress their lord for his morning rituals. He grabbed a earthenware pitcher from the table and swallowed greedily. Where he had expect water he got beer, malty and warm, left out of cold storage for too long. It felt good to have something in his stomach, and the alcohol ever so delicately shaved the edges off the pain still echoing in his brain.

Even though the body was no longer his, the memory of the blade’s bite remained, sending phantom messages to his nerves and flesh, who sung dissonant songs of pain in return. He had long ago mastered a way to keep physically young, but his mind was layered with a millennium of memories, a hundred different lives, some rich, some poor, some blissful, some agony. He wondered, wiping the beery froth from his coarse unkempt beard, what this new body, this next life, would teach him about the world.

A far curtain rustled, and the king turned to see what the cat was up to now. But instead of finding more feline antics, he found three men who had presumably entered through the window, all wrapped in faded gray linens, brandishing knives just like his. The biggest of the three looked down at the pile of bloody regal robes, then back up at the king’s new body. He opened his mouth and sounds came out, but the Maharaja did not recognize them as words.

“व्हत् हप्पेनेद?” The assassin used the tip of his knife to point at the corpse. “तेल्ल् मे व्हत् हप्पेनेद!”

He poured through his history, through all the books he’d read, all the places he’d lived, trying to decode the message coming from this gruff intruder. To buy time, he grunted, feigned exhaustion, even knelt in faux-fealty, hoping, assuming, that this man was his superior in whatever gang they represented.

Unsatisfied, the three moved towards the king, silky hisses of sharpened steel being drawn from leather following close behind. The Maharaja panicked for the first time in a century, unsure he had the energy to stop all three men, given how recently he’d changed corporeal residence. He held the kurki forward, but his arms were weak. The first parry knocked him back into the table, soaking the maps in the remainder of the beer.

Just before he was stabbed for a second time that same night, just before giving the man a chance to imprint another painful puncture, just before the world turn blindingly white, he closed his eyes and whispered those ancient words.

This time the lightning was more like fire, his soul an insatiable inferno moving between realms.

When he opened them again, he could see the hunched backs of the three men, bent over the space he’d so temporarily rented. The room seemed much brighter than before, but the colors were muted, as if some were missing. This body felt good; springy, agile, seductively sneaky.

The men seemed happy with their work, and went to rifling drawers for royal secrets and treasures. The Maharaja watched them closely, perched atop a bookshelf, his two yellow eyes the only sign he was there at all.

“And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.”
― John Milton

Review: Rutherford Ranch Cabernet Sauvignon

June 19, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

I’ve tried a lot of beers in my short time on this odd little planet (ales, lagers, stouts, porters, helles, weizens, lambics, pilsners, wheat-beers, marzens, altbiers, kolschs, steam-beers, spice-beers, sommerbraus, and even vegetable beers), but this is by far the weirdest.

My friend Justin bought me this beer as a companion to his wedding gift: a metallic cat that holds large bottles in a manner most fanciful. It is a pretty kickass present.

This beer came in an unusual bottle. Tall, thick brown glass, with a capacity of 750ml. It seems odd to package 1.562 pints in a bottle, but perhaps that is a custom in this “Napa Valley” place advertised across the bottom of the label.

The first thing I noticed about the beer was its odd, red color. It almost has a purple hue in the right light, if you hold the glass up to a a lightbulb and tilt your head a little bit. Short of some cranberry lambics or highly fruited beers, I’ve never had a really red beer until now.

I was a bit startled when this beer hit my tongue and it had no carbonation. I thought it odd that the beer had absolutely no head as I poured it into my glass. I’ve had small-batch cask conditioned ales that had very little carbonation, but never a beer that was completely void of bubbles entirely. It made for an odd drinking experience that was admittedly not very beer-like.

It smelled just like old-grapes. I didn’t detect any of the subtle flowery notes or spices of any kind. I really started to wonder about the veracity of this recipe.

The flavor was buttery and fruity, but I did not detect any level of malt or hops. It seems odd that a brewer would be so judicious with the two main ingredients of a beer, but I am not one to dismiss creativity for the sake of creativity. Maybe this is a new take on an old classic? I’m not sure.

About halfway through my second pint, I noticed that I was very drunk. Although it didn’t taste it, this beer was very high in alcohol: 13.5%, I would later find out. I’m usually pretty tolerant of the alcohol levels in beer, but have to admit that this particular brew rocked my world until it was spinning aggressively when I closed my eyes.

I woke up the next day with an incredible headache. I can’t imagine how anyone could drink more than one of these beers.

It did taste good though, despite its unorthodox ingredients and presentation.

Would drink again. But less next time.

9 out of 10.

You can’t even fit the whole bottle in a single glass. I think I need bigger glasses.

Ode to a Favorite Cat

May 22, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Yesterday we lost a family member. His name was Boddington (named after the beer, imagine that in my family). He was one of the greatest cats I have ever known.

This is for my mother, his mother, the greatest mom and cat-mom to ever grace this planet with her kindness. Her devotion to her cats is something of legend. Her love of life is unrivaled. She is a living model of compassion and selflessness.

Ode to a Favorite Cat

Although I will not be around to wake you with meows,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
I had years and years of love and purrs,
A life that cats in the street dream endlessly of.

I have gone to a place where the weather is clear,
Rain never rustles my shiny coat;
I’ve gone to a place where the bowl is never empty,
And I never get fat.

The birds give perfect sport, the mice are clumsy and plentiful,
The grass I eat is soft, never makes me sick;
The rays of sun passing through the windows always make a perfect spot for me to bask,
And I can roll on my back without fear.

I will miss you as you miss me,
But know that I am with my brothers, Tom, J.R.;
In this place I am not sick, but in the prime of my life,
I am strong and fast and silly as a cat should be.

While my physical strength has left me,
I remain powerful in your heart;
As long as you remember my playful biting and relentless cries,
I will live forever.

Although I will not be around to sleep on your feet,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
You gave me something that makes life worth living,
Love, companionship, and an embrace so warm it can never fade.

We love you Boddington. You will be missed more than you know.

(Inspiration found here)

Rest well my noisy friend, our hearts are bigger and sweeter for having known you.

Little Red Dot

May 9, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

I’ll come clean with you guys: I can’t post my next review as I haven’t taken the pictures of the beer yet. All of the words are on the page, poised and edited and ready, but the shiny eye-candy necessary to meet my arbitrarily high standards does not yet exist.

I could have taken them last night, but I just wasn’t feeling it. My motivation was buried under a pile of emotional laundry and I hadn’t even finished folding the last load of guilt and apathy. My ethos is still sitting in the washing machine, getting moldy and developing that unmistakable ” two-week old wet clothes funk.”

As I’ve gotten older (I’d like to say matured but that’d clearly be a lie) I’ve found that my productivity comes in erratic waves. I’ll be motivated to write prodigiously for weeks on end, then hit a wall where words seem foreign and unclean. I’ll commit to a job around the house and burn all of my energy to do it in one fell swoop, crashing harder than a rookie Nascar driver when I’m finished.

My productivity is schizophrenic. It can’t focus to save its life.

I feel like my brain is a cat chasing a laser pointer; running like a little furry maniac after a red dot that I’m never able to catch. I’ll chase the dot down hallways, up walls, undernearth furniture, even into places I probably shouldn’t go.

All I can see is the dot. The dot is all that matters.

Until I get tired. Then the dot is just annoying. It’s still there, dancing around on the carpet, manipulated by some unseen giant who takes sadistic pleasure in watching the chase. But I can’t be bothered to chase. Screw the giant. I know it will still be there, taunting me, reminding me that I’ve got things to do.

But for now, I’m out of breath. And I think I’m mentally torturing my cats.

I get to a point where I actually develop reverse productivity. I feel like I should undo the work I’ve already done. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but I think it all the same. Any work I do is below my standards, and on days like today, the delete key gets hammered to the point of abuse.

I almost deleted this post.

So here I sit with a crap-ton of stuff to do, but very little desire, energy, or creativity to do it. I know I’ll get it done eventually, but I get all boring and existential, wondering why guilt is simultaneously my most powerful enemy and most trusted ally.

There’s the dot again. I suppose I should go chase it.

Envy.