The Yellow Cat by Marc Alexander Valle

THE YELLOW CAT

by Marc Alexander Valle

The yellow cat stopped by again. I saw it across the street, outside my open window, coming  from behind my neighbor’s single home. It sat down on the lawn and on its haunches and looked around the neighborhood. The wind blew hard, and I could see it squint its eyes. I thought maybe it was deep in thought. The other day, I saw the grey cat tackle a squirrel as I drove in the neighborhood. I cheered it on. But I’ve never seen the yellow cat do anything, but stop and pass, maybe once or twice a week. 

Something made me get up from my chair and walk to the window today. Maybe I wanted to see what it would do or where it would go. But there was something else. I wanted it to show something to me. Something about life and the purpose of existence. The expression, “Animals are more human than people crossed my mind.”  

I made a tisk sound with my tongue and roof of my mouth. For some reason people think animals like that, and I’m no different. It looked up and around. I tisked again, and it looked at me. And it stared. It stared for a few seconds, then it looked away and scanned its surroundings once again. It looked back at me. 

I’ve seen many cats in this neighborhood and after a few years I don’t see them anymore. They become replaced by a new generation, and I almost forget about the ones that have passed. I’ve labeled them by their quirks and demeanors, never giving them a name. The gray one that leaves as soon as it arrives. The tabby one that hangs around with the black and white one. The yellow one that keeps to itself. The cats will keep coming and I’ll keep watching and labeling.

It sat back up and walked towards the street. “Hey, kitty,” I said, and it kept walking. It kept walking until it got near the side of my house. “Psst,” I said. “Psst.” It looked at me, and then it kept walking. It kept walking until it went around the house and I could no longer see it.

I sat back down and stared at my screen and could do nothing but sit. I could feel neither discord or peace in my thoughts yet what I was experiencing wasn’t necessarily indifference.  I just sat. There’s branches of science and philosophy that study these things, but I can’t seem to remember their names. I’ve never been good with remembering names.

Trifecta: A Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

That budded dogwood tree doesn’t care about daylight savings time. Go ahead. Move the clock, and it won’t make any difference. It’s going to do what it wants, and it probably thinks your national attempt to save a buck is silly. Even if it did gain or lose an hour, it’s been here before you got here and it’ll be here when you’re gone. Kind of like a human to a mouse. Or a mouse to a dragonfly. 

In one month, those buds on those branches will be pink flowers, and I won’t be able to see the sky on the other side of it from where I’m sitting. 

The last ray of sunset hits the dogwood. I watch it slip away. It’s so gradual that I can’t tell at all. But it’s happening. I know it. I’ve watched it happen before. And it’s going to happen again.

TODAY I LEARNED THE WORD ‘PERMAFROST’ by Marc Alexander Valle

We do things to save our lives. 

Not real life. 

But ourselves. 

That little fire. 

The one you can see in a child’s smile and curiosity, picking up a rock and looking for a bug and wondering if every rock hides a bug and committing to the lifting of every rock until they find out for sure whether there is a bug under every rock or not.

That fire, that smile, that everything.

That fire started to die down in high school. 

Everything became a fog. 

Peers started dating and I didn’t have a clue, older brother started spending time with other friends, dad started yelling about my grades and how I was using my time, and the anxiety/depression started to take hold and take form. 

Everything I thought was real was crumbling. 

So I wrote. 

And all of it was bad. At first, it was bad writing for bad screenplays. Then bad poems and bad essays and bad plays and bad stories, all of them taking me now where.  

But I saved my life. Not my real life. But my life.

Over and over again I did it. Like a lighthouse fueled by imagination. I did it over and over again. That fire. That smile. Over and over again. Each strike of the pen, more exciting than a first date and more satisfying than hitting back the school yard bully. Again and again. And one day I stopped writing nothing but crap, and one day I found my voice. And the real voice of anyone of us is the voice of the Universe, using us to find its place in this world. 

Sometimes I get lonely and think most people just let that blaze die and this is how the world works. The schools and the streets and the bars and the workplace flowed with enough booze, gossip, dental benefits and Sunday football to make people forget they ever had an inferno inside. 

But the fire is warm and the fire is burning white birch and the fire is everything and outside the fire are the woods and the woods are the world and the eyes of the wolves can be seen hiding from the fire and the people of the world can be heard screaming and laughing out in the woodland darkness.  

The burning wood collapses and draws my attention back to the blaze, and I forget about the deep tundra outside the circle of light. I look into the coals at the bottom of the pit and know that I am warm. For now. And it’s everything to be warm. For now.

by Marc Alexander Valle

The Gordian Face: A Poem

THE GORDIAN FACE

by Marc Alexander Valle

Who are you? Can you tell me in a paragraph? I’m being generous and giving you a paragraph. Or is a paragraph too much? Would limiting you to a word or sentence, allow you to be more concise? Would that help? Or do you need a novel? Do you need plot and characters and action and reaction and every tool in storytelling to paint a picture? Would that aptly summarize you as a living being? Or maybe your definition should include body language. You could say something that could be misinterpreted, but because you smiled and nodded your head, I might more likely feel that you meant something deeper. Or maybe you could be tested by behavior. Maybe you could react to a hypothetical situation where you could make the wrong choice and get rewarded with your wildest dream and get away with it, or you could do the right thing and no one would notice. Would you be comfortable with that form of testing? You would never know when it’s going to happen to you. That would insure the validity of the test. Thirty years from now, maybe? Would you be at ease with that? Or maybe I’ll just ask people that interacted with you. Your mother. Your father. Your neighbor. Your friends. All your friends. Every single friend. Despite the circumstances. Despite the last word or two you had with each other. Would you have any objections to that?

But what if I gave you the power to choose? From the one sentence summary to the interviews to artificial intelligence systems that analyze every breath of your life. Take your pick. It’s your life. It’s your choice. How do you choose? How do you wish to measure your existence? But know that your choice will help in revealing who you are. It’s inescapable, isn’t it? We leave an imprint no matter how gentle we walk on the sand. And those who walk gently, thinking they will leave no trace are fools. And those who stomp quickly, thinking it makes no difference miss the point. Who are you? I want to know. I’ve always wanted to know who’s really who. How about you? 

by Marc Alexander Valle

©2020

Mav The Writer: The Lost Years

There’s a time in my life that I cannot write about. There’s no story there that would be of interest to my audience. I even get bored, thinking about it. From my teens to my very early 30s, I neither acted upon nor reacted to the world.

I did my thing. I wrote in various mediums, I went to karaoke twice a week, I read my work at open mics, I had my artwork in a gallery, I went back to school and earned my degree, I experimented in photography, and I worked various low-paying jobs with colorful people. But for the most part it was my lost years. I took no risks and barely ventured out of my comfort zone. I hardly dared to ask out females, fearing what they might have thought of me.

Is time ever really lost? Does the brain collect and process data and turn it into wisdom no matter the circumstance? And do movies, books, and music count as life experience?

I got into a shoving match in second grade, and it’s one of my sweetest moments. Some kid bullied my best friend on the playground. He was high up on himself, because all the girls followed him around during recess. I cursed at him and pushed him to the ground. All the girls came after me and yelled at me. The bully stood back up and cried. It felt good.

The world acted, I reacted, and in turn I existed. Beginning, middle and end.

We grade our lives on curves and our view of ourselves is rich with self-talk rebuttals.

I see no good in those years except that it makes my story different.

To excavate our lives for a happy ending can be a brutal endeavor, but a necessary one if the left foot is to move in front of the right and the right foot is to move in front of the left. I still can’t write a lick about that era.

The Santa Poem by Marc Alexander Valle

(Feedback is welcome)

The Santa Poem

My brother told me that Santa doesn’t exist. He showed me where all the gifts were stashed. G.I. Joes were everywhere. I felt a thrill throughout my body. Finding that Santa doesn’t exist is a double-edged sword. Your childhood is almost over, but now you have the advantage in gift begging. You can manipulate your parents into getting you what you want, and now you have someone to blame when you don’t get it. I’ll probably lie to my kids about Santa if I ever have any. When they find the gift stash, I’ll still lie to them. One Christmas, our dad made us leave a can of beer for Santa. He said that he wanted to see if Santa would drink it. The can was empty in the morning.