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Melanistic Jaguar (Panthera onca), Belize: photo by Belizian, 2004
Election night on the street of bitter aloes, 1:30 a.m., funereal silence under the Safeway arcade, portico to the mothership of the champions of the world. Closed for business at this hour, thus a place of temporary rest for a young black man with his life-gear in a shopping cart and for me. We talked about civics, the Greek way of argument. Having tuned in to the maniacs and the morons of the talkradio airwaves, shouting and interrupting each other, the airwaves brimming over with teaparty triumphalism, I suggested things have devolved beyond the sort of political argument the Greeks would have understood. True that, he said, but we've still got the Constitution. The Greeks didn't have that. We discussed the victory of the San Francisco ordinance banning sitting or lying upon the public pavements. That doesn't leave one many options, I suggested. True that, he said. But it will be overturned. We've still got the Constitution.
We sat in silence a while, watching the occasional car leak past on the moribund debris-littered Avenue. Looking down at our hands. It was then I noticed we were both wearing black Harbinger handball gloves, the kind with the fingers cut-out. The fingers crawl out of the gloves as if struggling to breathe. The fingers seemed to be waiting. Then there was movement off to the edge of the scene, beyond the sheltering arcade, near the trash and recycling bins, where a black cat was apprehensively scavenging for food. You see that? he said. Cats are survivors. They will find food anywhere. They took a lot of cats and just dumped them in the middle of the Australian outback. I read this article. The cats did okay, they didn't starve. Of course there are some pretty bad snakes and big spiders out there, so it would not be easy. As we watched, the black cat paused from its trash-picking, tensing, alert. A small dark shape scurried out from under the trash bins. The cat sprang off in pursuit. Plenty of rats, too, I bet, he said.
There is a sun inside every living creature, a night sun that burns on in the heart of the black jaguar. We've still got the night.
We sat in silence a while, watching the occasional car leak past on the moribund debris-littered Avenue. Looking down at our hands. It was then I noticed we were both wearing black Harbinger handball gloves, the kind with the fingers cut-out. The fingers crawl out of the gloves as if struggling to breathe. The fingers seemed to be waiting. Then there was movement off to the edge of the scene, beyond the sheltering arcade, near the trash and recycling bins, where a black cat was apprehensively scavenging for food. You see that? he said. Cats are survivors. They will find food anywhere. They took a lot of cats and just dumped them in the middle of the Australian outback. I read this article. The cats did okay, they didn't starve. Of course there are some pretty bad snakes and big spiders out there, so it would not be easy. As we watched, the black cat paused from its trash-picking, tensing, alert. A small dark shape scurried out from under the trash bins. The cat sprang off in pursuit. Plenty of rats, too, I bet, he said.
There is a sun inside every living creature, a night sun that burns on in the heart of the black jaguar. We've still got the night.
Safeway supermarket advertisement, 1950s: photo by Decimal10, 2006
Church Street, San Francisco: homeless person resting in front of dilapidated building on an otherwise upscale street, while one of several passersby takes notice: photo by Christopher Beland, 2005