cy is short for cyan, which is supposed to sound like sigh, and i do. her name was meant to be hissyphus. a parody of the gods, i got her to give meaning to the mythos of grey, to move the rocks i did not know how to. she doesn’t roll. she sits on my desk, on my keys now, unmovable. i type with the full weight of an universe on my wrists.
she dreams in the speak of dog. sometimes, i join her, wishing she did not ruin the bark of the trees of my apartment. i say, cy, this is not your meaning. she stares at me with eyes that know what this whole thing was about, and begins destroying the soon-to-be-stumps, the desks, the papers that ask to be trees again.
cy is a weapon. in japanese, it is sai, a small knife-like three-pronged shorthand used by farmers against the more trained samurai. cy’s fur is the grain fields. it is the plow. it is all of japan, or at least, the reason for it.
i know this all does not make sense, but cy has shown me that it is much better to not make sense all the time. sleep in all day. hide your poop. eat it when you need to, though you had just hidden it, but things change. some shit doesn’t.
example: her face. she is a wash of black, a tide of a great storm brewing, a mask of a robber with nothing to steal but affection. she hunts dustmites, murders flower petals. she is aristocratic, with more poise than some rich, more gusto than the poor. she would read zadie smith but scowl at maya angelou. too many birds, she’d purr.
she tries to draw in a language i do not understand with a pencil i cannot see. she thinks van gogh was self-absorbed, a deviant who wanted fame so much that he would kill himself for it. that he would scream at a canvas and then scream when it was finished. that he wouldn’t make a noise like cy would. look how she roars.
what? mostly of that ancient place we know, that is fostered in darkness, that says to the light you are you are you are, but you are not me. i am more than this starved thing cut by something of a corner. i am inside that corner too.
cy has scratched many of them, nails remembering the wild. she sometimes scratches me as well. my blood is fresh. she thinks it makes for poor paint and worse living. her blued eyes reflect the red slowly, brilliantly.