Painting A Cat
Years ago I lived in a big old house on the outskirts of downtown Montgomery with two magnificent artists and an eccentric and delightful landlady. We were all pretty much the same age, so calling her a “landlady” seems a little misleading…let’s just say she owned the house, then. I’ve fallen, sadly and completely, out of touch with her and one of the artists, but the other one I still consider one of my best friends, even though we haven’t spoken in a few months. Friendship is a funny thing like that.
I wish I could remember and describe all of the house-owner’s wonderful eccentricities, but you know how those times can be, fueled as they are by thrills of the moment and then stowed away in dusty closets of memory. A few things I do remember: she would sleep for days at a time and then signal her awakening accidentally at four in an unexpected morning with the crash of something metallic in the kitchen…and then she’d be awake for several days before finally resting again for several more.
She read the dictionary. I mean like a book, not grabbing it only for reference when needed, but going start to finish, bookmarking her place when she needed to break from it. Needless to say, she was increasingly literate in addition to already having a sturdy intellect.
In an attempt at minimization, she turned the small dining nook into her bedroom, fashioning a sort of cave from it, with an elevated bed like the top bunk in my childhood bedroom. Beneath it was her parlor, a mysterious, gypsy-feeling area with scarves as curtains and muted lighting. One wouldn’t be faulted for expecting to have their fortune told there, and indeed we often did in a way.
She was mostly a homebody, and smoked unfiltered cigarettes and listened to Celtic music. Her large glasses magnified her intelligent and curious eyes, and she had an air of academia and bohemia about her that was noticeable even if you didn’t know the things I’ve told you already. She also had a fondness for biker boys, and would uncharacteristically venture at the beginning of each Spring to Daytona, always returning with one or two of them in tow.
But one thing she did stuck with me enough to inspire a song. I came home from work one afternoon and found white kittens running around the living room, but when I looked closely I saw that each kitten had designs painted on it: red or blue circles on their tails or sides, or purple or yellow tips to their ears and paws. What the…?
Walking into the kitchen, I found her at the table holding a kitten-in-progress and dipping a paint brush into a messy palette of food colorings in front of her. More kittens were playing on the kitchen floor as she painted shaky mandalas on this one’s shank and thigh. Almost done, she said.
I don’t remember where she got the cats, but they were eventually all turned over to good homes with no ill-effect from the natural dyes (though I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home just in case there’s the chance for toxic exposure). All’s well that ends well.
So I wrote this song, quoting directly from her the reasons she didn’t want to leave the house one night. I’ve been trying to give it a fresh mix the last couple of days, but a clogged ear – brought on like clockwork at the change of every season for me, an allergy no doubt – has made it a little tough. It does kind of feel as though my right ear is wearing a little wig which only allows muffled sound into it. But I think the mix is close enough to my original vision of a quick, rough and nasty little trash rock tune that it will suffice.
PAINTING A CAT
Truth is a house with many rooms,
And our behavior is governed by whichever particular room we are in
She was painting a cat when I walked in the room
And she said Hello
I said Why paint a cat?
Well it’s pointless to ask
Only two more to go
I knew that it was raining ’cause my cheeks were turning red
And the feathers in my head were whirling ’round
Can’t we just go out for a while?
I love you but I’m really bored
I know where we can get something to make us smile
Then I won’t be so bored
She said
I’d love to go out, but I’m not leaving the house
I’d have to put on my shoes
And then there’s that whole getting in the car thing….
Presto MusiCo 