Sully Diary I.1 - forfeiting sensitivities, finally
Today I brought home my first pet: Sully, a sensuous tomcat. We are in love. My satisfaction with the lad's tenderness and his with mine had me contemplating my nature and identity. I am human -- debatable. But suppose I am a human being. Suppose I'm the human being par excellence. Well, then: who fails to be human more than a human? Yes, really! Can any of you Readers conceive of another animal with the word "underachiever" in its vocabulary? Would it do me good if Sully were a correctional officer or Catholic school nun? What's with these expectations I draw for myself? Strange territory it is, to fondle Sully on my beanbag and feel as much intimacy as I have with a woman (maybe more) and yet at the same time be certain that he will never ever understand conceptually in this life what I read aloud to him. And is it an ironic surprise that Sully tolerates my reading aloud better than a lover would?
The hypothetical girlfriend who'll hold a gun to my head to force me to achieve will never come around -- I know. But now, maybe Sully is holding the real gun by not giving a damn, not explicitly, but simply by being what he is. Maybe it's the example that he sets. Maybe I'm telling myself: my cat is being a cat -- I should be a writer who won't quit any more than Sully will forgo catnip forever. I want to deserve Sully and his affections, even though I already have a monopoly. It's strange; I've sought love for the sake of sanction and validation, rejecting that of institutions. And now, aside from what my kind and gentle disposition is due, Sully's sanction of my purposes and freedom is none other than grace. He's a dumb mammal and so am I -- so maybe now I'm more motivated to be what he can never be, paradoxically. I don't have to pace around my place anymore; Sully handles that. I don't have to take pride in urinating as much; Sully does that. I don't have to ignore my own treasures to call it a night anymore; Sully handles that -- I can seize and exploit the treasures instead. I don't have to remind myself I don't kill my own meals now; that's Sully's longing, eating his cat-food.
I've always found myself caring; sensitively giving a damn. now I can say "If Sully doesn't mind, why should I?" Thus I become feline now (yet more anthropically empowered). My weekly news magazine might well become more of a trifle than ever. And if Sully doesn't lose sleep over my houseplants being fake, then come on, don't sweat it. I've cared about insight, originality, civilization, achievement. But all I have to be to my cat is a fair gentleman who loves himself. Maybe that right there says something we should emphasize in schools more than "math and science". Verily, love is an art, and the home, just the home, is not what makes a Christian as such or a Buddhist or an Animist or what-have-you. You find the imminence of non-being and understanding, truth, precisely when there is a disconnect before your eyes, something bucking your cozy intuitions. I love you, dear Reader.
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