Milieu

A figure wrapped in the greyest of all grey was making its way up the incline to the crest of the hill on university grounds. Once there, they turned right and began the long decent back down the hill – down to the place where they lived. With the sun setting ahead, the moving figure bowed their head so that the visor of the jacket hood hid the sun’s oppression. Should anyone pain themselves to look away from the light and upon the slow-moving being, they would not see the eyes, and any accidental story they might convey through their glazed colorations of fatigue. This march from the lab was made regularly- usually in darkness- usually, much later.

Another experiment failed due to idiocy. Or technical failure. Or a loss of consciousness, executive function. Some- whatever- tragic, irreparable incompatibility between mind and matter, intention and intuition. Another... Failure...

One saving grace was that there had been no-one around to hear the frustrated cries before the tearing off of nitrile lab gloves. Or the pllumpph of an empty plastic bottle of potassium phosphate being kicked into the side of an over-full trash bin. At least it was a Sunday.

Nobody was around to see the failure indignantly shoving itself into a broken desk chair, opening up the lid to a small laptop and asking the internet important questions. Would it be cruel to quit this far in – to admit that these experiments would never succeed?

The shrouded figure approached a house with eight discrete doors mid-way down the street at the very bottom of the hill and made their way around the side to a less clear entry. The mail bin for this unit, half-attached to the house siding, contained two letters; one bank statement and a mall advert. Both had been previously noted and returned to the place from which they were plucked. Some other miscellany were in the mailbox. A rock, a hair tie and much older mail carpeted the metal enclosure. The abandoned mail had taken on new colors since their arrival- wet black-green, wet black-brown, wet black-black.

The mail bin contained one new item: a small black notebook. A chafed hand pulled the book out of an internal socket formed within the sticky carpet of the bin. The notebook was new. It wasn’t gross. Hardcover. Sturdy elastic band. Simple, appealing. The finder enjoyed the existence of the discovery for a full second before shoving it into a jacket pocket unceremoniously, peeling open a sticky storm door, and charging up the winding back stairs to the apartment.

A heavy backpack dropped into the floor and the finder landed itself on a mattress encompassed in a permanently stained sheet and an unzipped sleeping bag. An old grey cat leapt up to join, ears twisted back due to a hereditary condition. The notebook was pulled from the pocket and scoured for words.

Nothing. Nothing. Then, on the last page:

What would you see if you could see more?

How would you live if you lived laterally?

How would you feel if you asked why?

A hand reached out, stroking the cat, which had sidled up to put its full weight upon the reader. The reader found itself also to be a thinker. There was a need for clarification. Laterally? From the sides? To the sides? As opposed to straight? As opposed to the center?

The thinker looked ahead towards the only window in the room. Decisively, the crusty window-frame was noted along with the rolled up duo of stapled airplane blankets serving as a shade. The glass was darkened and the thinker found itself in the reflection. Then, to the sides: the cat and a month-old newspaper off the edge of the mattress.

The thinker spoke, “I love you, Chroma”, as sight settled on the cat in the reflection. The speaker turned to it and scratched underneath her neck and lowered to kiss her head. The speaker returned to the notebook and reached over to the backpack, unzipped a compartment and tweezed out a pen.

On the first page of the notebook, the pen found instruction through the hand. The writing came readily:

See More

Live Lateral

Feel Why

The writer drew a circle. The circle felt right.

The writer turned the page and dated it. Writing continued:

Seeing. I saw Chroma. Living. I pet Chroma. Feeling. I love Chroma.

The writer looked to the newspaper and picked it up. A random page was selected. A community center was looking for volunteers. The advertised choices: Deliver meals to seniors. Teach English. Fundraising. Play music. Paint a mural. The community center was literally perpendicular to the route from this place and the campus. Hmm. Too big of a jump.

The newspaper was put down. The notebook garnered attention again. The writer re-read what was written about Chroma. And wrote:

But is it lateral?

The writer pulled out a phone and took a picture of Chroma. Big pupils. Strange ears. Cute.

The photographer sighed, feeling skeptical, and pulled up an app long gone unused, a social media platform in which pictures could be uploaded and tagged for the world to see. The photographer posted the picture with a single hashtag. #clonemycat

The poster chuckled, “More Chroma!” The act was then written into the notebook and a line was drawn from the new writing to the word “Living” to connect the two. Nobody would actually come and clone the cat, of course, but the thought brought a smile.

The next day, a different viewpoint had found fertile ground. The viewer began to look around in a different way. More writing was directed in the little black notebook that evening:

I saw that the lab was a terrible mess. I cleaned it up. I felt freed.

On the fifth day, the caretaker found space on a bus. The little black notebook saw new ink:

I saw a baby squinting in the light. I put my arm against the window to shade the baby’s eyes. I felt relief.

On the tenth day, the protector had started to develop courage. Remembering the newspaper, a step was taken in a different direction. That night, in the little black notebook:

I saw the community center needed help. I volunteered to paint for them. I felt useful.

In the walks to campus, the helper had typically kept their head low, looking down or forward. Now an inquiry had been made: what might it be like to move forward differently- with a lateral mind? The observer looked around. Sometimes there would be a pause and movement towards something in the periphery. A tree, maybe. It could be touched. Experienced.

See. Live. Feel.

Different things happened. A ball about the roll into the street was caught. A few minutes were given to a yard sale and a friendly vendor. Willing help was found for a neighbor backing a trailer out of a tricky driveway.

The doer would still move forward. There was still direction, but the journey became something more, something of value in itself and outside itself. The doer was part of a sphere of existence- not just a point. There was contribution to environment, both internally and externally. A new awareness breached the mind and thoughts within it.

Twice a week on evenings, the community center met the painter. The painter would take suggestions from the environment. Seniors who had come for the dinners served in the cafeteria down the hall would offer greetings and inspire creative movements for the night. Their smiles moved the painter, and the painter added to them.

Still, the writer wrote in the book. It wasn’t always a good day.

Still, the photographer took pictures of Chroma. Chroma was always a good cat. #clonemycat

One night the painter got home and plopped on the mattress. Chroma came as she always did. The writer opened the little black notebook and brought a pen to it.

Eyes then turned to Chroma, “We should go to the community center together soon. Wouldn’t that be exciting? They would love you.”

Pictures of Chroma had begun to circulate and the photographer had been encouraged to take her to visit. Historically, she was a very social cat but it would be a risk. If Chroma was upset by anything, they would have to leave. On the other hand, could Chroma be a therapy cat?

Georgette, an eighty-four year old frequenter of the community center, strolled up to the art project one evening as the painter was finishing up. It would only be another day or so before the mural was complete. The finishing touches were to be added, but the form was there in its entirety.

Georgette smiled cheerily, “How would you like to stick around here- after your art?”

The painter smiled back, “I’d love to! What do you think I could help with?”

“Well, the center recently received some support from a local initiative. I’m part of the board. We have a proposal for you,” She presented a letter in an outstretched hand.

The painter took the letter, considering whether to open it there or wait.

Georgette winked, “Take a look at it when you get home.”

The letter read:

Dear young one,

A local donor saw your art and has been asking about you. She has heard of your work on campus and has been following your furry companion. The world can be a complicated place, discouraging for many without hope. An open mind can build hope and allow that hope to extend out in all directions. She wishes for you to keep spreading hope, keep seeing, living and feeling.

She loves the idea of your cat becoming a staple at the community center and wants you to start bringing Chroma regularly. As a token of her appreciation, to help you with expenses and- perhaps- to help you do a silly thing that you never thought could really happen- please accept this check.

Love,

Georgette

A check for $20,000 was in the envelope. The reader held it, with absolute wonderment. In the memo space was written “#clonemycat”.

The wonderer looked to the small black notebook. A hand moved towards the last page:

What would you see if you could see more?

How would you live if you lived laterally?

How would you feel if you asked why?

Chroma opened her mouth in a yawn, tongue curled, paws outstretched. Her eyes glowed.

To the awe-inspired, she seemed to say: Pass it on.