I am thinking “who let the cat out of the bag?” and I am thinking about Schroedinger and I am wondering what it is about all these cats in containers and the secrets they hold. I am bad with secrets, at least with my own. I have a face like a billboard and a propensity to drink. This makes me confessional. I can't help it. I want you to know the soft spots beneath my skin.
I would like to think of this trait as charming, disarming, adorable and fine. In truth, it is probably none of these things and, undoubtedly, there would be dignity in restraint. Perhaps I could be like Bacall if I just shut up. Tilted my chin and looked to the sky and kept my mouth firmly closed. Or open just a smudge, like a pout.
But I am not this way, I act like a fool and then I spread out for the world to observe. I am a storyteller, always, full of extraneous detail I peddle to the world. Wandering with a sack on a stick from town to town, crying out with a bell what we got up to last night. Ignoring the monkeys with the hands on their ears. Babbling about cats.
It would work out better if I could just smile. Grin a harlot's grin of secrets tied up with silver bows, say nothing. All you really need to hear is this: things are going well, I'm happy. Things are wonderful. The world is fine.