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"It shouldn't come as a shock that when I think of the name Felix, I think of a cat.
Straight out of the womb, he was a fighter, a survivor. His entire life he’s been a fighter, a survivor. He will scratch and claw his way to where he needs to be, and if there’s a loophole, he’ll find it. A Leo to the core, Felix knows how to roar.
His curiosity gets him into trouble, but that’s part of his charm. Agile and flexible, his long strides take him from adventure to adventure.
I’ve had the pleasure of knowing Felix since adolescence and we’ve been family ever since. Our friendship is a magical one, into which people are rarely invited to really see the true dynamic that exists between us. Our chemistry ensures that it will last forever.
He’s taught me several lessons over the years, and he continues to be my sounding board. He’s one of few people I trust completely. His sound advice helps me through my situations; when I need a friend, I know where to turn. He’s bared his fangs for me and wouldn’t hesitate to bring his back claws into a fight if necessary.
Despite his uncanny ability to hiss in the face of danger, he also knows how to purr and sidestep tragedy. Perpetually on his ninth life, Felix doesn’t stop walking on the tallest fences, knocking over trash cans and stretching out on sidewalks in the sun. Traffic is something for him to laugh at as he travels easily through it.
Yes, yes, I know: he’s not really a cat. But really, the metaphor fits. He does his own thing and doesn’t need anybody to possess him. He chooses his friends carefully and doesn’t feel bad when he doesn’t like somebody. He makes no excuses for who he is, because who he is is all he is. Nothing more, but nothing less."
--Gail T. Kismet, author of the up-and-coming Cunning Stunts.
I fawned over a graduate student in the winter of 2005. We were in process of the university’s production of Angels in America: Millennium Approaches, and I had convinced the rest of the production staff that the only appropriate look for his character’s was a dark brown rinse (Jew), to be executed personally each night in the hours leading up to performance. It’s quite obvious, in hindsight, that everyone knew I just wanted an excuse to play with his hair. The show was a resounding success, if you enjoy such a thing, and closing night found me on the graduate student’s bed in the house he shared with three other graduate students, having finally convinced him to make good on a promise to kiss me before the holiday break. It sucked – really, madly, deeply -- and the spell was broken. He had a girlfriend, anyway. I had a boyfriend. It could never have worked.
A year later, from a computer then co-owned by the aforementioned boyfriend in a high-rise Chicago lakeside apartment, I alighted on this former graduate student’s Myspace page. I no longer trusted said boyfriend, so there was no guilt in clicking. I was immediately reminded how stupid I was in college. A (poorly-written) blog entry of his (I mean, really) had a clever title, but the content just didn’t fit.
Since, I have removed the boyfriend from my world. The lakeside apartment, owned at one time by a pair of Koreans expatriates, now houses some other yuppie couple who definitely paid too much for too little. I earned the job of my dreams, and had it robbed shortly after. In the interim, I’ve misplaced the ability to trust people, especially myself, and confidence comes in erratic waves that, really, are just frustrating. Anxiety is always coiled inside me, though I was pleasantly surprised to find out that was chemical. Contrarily, I am in love and am getting better at that. My ass (though high and tight) has been kicked, worlds have sprung up and crumbled around me, but I find most of it ironically hilarious.
On the path that leads us downward into our own hearts, to plumb the depths of truth, of sex, of identity, of humor, of the burden of consciousness, I keep banging my head. It makes me feel better that the rock has been smoothed by the heads of others that were probably freakishly bigger than mine. Sometimes, when I smack it really hard, the lightbulb on my helmet breaks and it’s dark; other times, I find grottos and caverns inside myself that no one has ever laid eyes on. What am I searching for? Dunno. But I’m trusting the light there will be a brighter than it is along the way.
The graduate student is long gone, older and married at my last check…but his title isn’t.
I stole the name of this blog. In reading it’ll become clear why it makes so much sense.
