Schrödinger’s Dog’s Cat’s Thoughts on Life and Other Things

Here’s the setup, it’s quite straightforward — the door will be sealed off, and then the dog will be right in here, and we’ll be outside waiting. I brought an extra peanut butter and jelly sandwich for you, if you want it, while we’re waiting for the whole thing to unfold. It may take some time.

Have a seat; I know the chair, which is cold steel with sharp edges, looks uncomfortable, but you’ll get used to it. So let us talk about important matters regarding the world, and the state of things generally. Start with a question, shall we?

Where did the dog go? Yes, that is a good question, but I am afraid it yields a not so good answer. The dog is dead, as a matter of fact. Quite dead too — her limbs pulled apart like weeds torn up from the ground, and the head mutilated with blank eyeholes and burnt hair and a missing ear. We don’t know what happened inside that chamber. I suppose the photon pulled out something from its little bag a tricks; photons are crafty particles, you know, much craftier and mischievous than say electrons or neutrinos or elephants.

Speaking of which, the elephant in the room today is named Krantectirous. He is an African Bush Elephant, captured recently by some Kenyan poachers, and brought here on a discrete cargo ship. Not to worry, Krantectirous has been treated fairly well; we feed him twice a day, and his cage is big enough for him to turn 360 degrees, and really, that’s all we can afford at the moment. But right now, he’s in the middle of the room, taking up lots of space, and smelling like manure and grass. We must be diligent, and not get trampled before Krantectirous is tranquilized and put back in his cage. Did I mention that his cage is painted pink? I think it’s a nice touch.

Back to the dog: she’s a three year old yellow labrador, last time I checked, a few minutes before she went into the chamber. Her owner, Dr. Schrödinger, adopted the dog (her name is Liz) from a local shelter when she was only a few weeks old. Liz is, officially, a donation to the Institute, since she is on the materials list for the experiments that Dr. Schrödinger and the other “scientists” are running. (We’ll get back to why I’m using quotation marks around the word scientists later.) Liz is a well-behaved dog, and I heard very little barking when the “scientists” strapped her in on a table and took various measurements and wrote down observations.

I’m the cat, by the way. In case you didn’t notice in the title. These are my thoughts on life and other things. Which is confusing: is it my thoughts on life and other things, or my thoughts on life, AND other things? I doubt that cleared things up, but it doesn’t really matter, I feel. Since I am Schrödinger’s cat (by association), I think we can live with both interpretations being valid. For now, at least. You must bear with me.

The story begins like many others, on a cold November evening, with rain and all; don’t ask me, the pathetic fallacy to me is cliche, yes, but you must bear with me. We are in San Francisco, going up and down Van Ness, without much purpose. Stop at a bookstore. There’s dim, lemonly warm lighting — you find me perched on a bench, looking towards the street. Something happens. You, standing a couple feet away, say something to me (good evening?), and ignore me. Before we branch out any farther, look closely. It’s raining sideways now, and your hat (if you have a hat) is getting soaked by now. Where am I going? Do you move towards the interior of the building, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows and doors, or do you walk away onto the street?

The street’s empty, other than a mass of cars, and specks of pedestrians, shadows of birds flying across the dark skies. If we move inside though, presuming that’s what happened, we’ll end up in a hotel room — plush red pillows, stuffy air, and I’m purring on the bed. Turn on the lights, please. Pretending that a spotlight is upon me, and you and other people are attentive, I start to talk, as I smile and perk up my ears.

C: Man is but the accumulation of his habits and the passage of time.

C: There is no humanity in nature, just as there is no good in indifference.

C: Evil exists not from inevitability, but from necessity.

D: Woof, woof, woof!

That is Mr. Schrödinger’s dog interrupting my speech — rude little creature; that is why she is going into the chamber, instead of me. I hope she dies inside that chamber; I hope the photon decides to be unmerciful and cruel. I gave the photon instructions beforehand, twitching my whiskers at it, deliberately enough so that it must have seen it, but still discrete enough so that the “scientists” would not. Those lab coated bald self-important pseudo-intellects don’t actually see things anyway, so why should I be surprised? I just sulk at their feet, thinking about things and other things.

Things: The thing about things is that it is awfully vague, what these things are, and can be. Versatility, in other words, said someone in the audience, who had a massive, pretentious grin on his face. What a snob. Perhaps I am a snob, one, for writing these digressions; two, for calling someone a snob; three, for admitting the possibility of my own snobbishness; and four, for compiling this list. I am a cat, though — that is my defense.

Other things: One should seek to avoid the outdoors in the event of a thunderstorm; the probability of being electrocuted, though statistically low, can and should be significantly decreased by not being in the vicinity of tall objects and/or swimming pools.

Other other things: When Schrödinger first suggested to me, on a summer afternoon when he was vacationing in France, that I could be both dead and alive at the same time, I mewed a great deal. “What a terribly bizarre idea,” I tried to say with my eyes. But he was looking towards the horizon, which provided no answers.

You keep on shifting in that steel chair, and it is getting to my nerves. Walking in circles is not providing the solace I require at this time. Are you thinking of Lolita again? Dirty bastard. Maybe I’ll feel better if you feed me, but I’m making no promises about not biting you. Back to my thoughts.

The story progresses quickly, if not too quickly, with little to no character development, to a gleaming surface of quartz-like material. Everybody’s standing below the full, unrelenting sun and invisible stars, the wallpaper clouds. We’ll be sweating for a few hours, and I’ll be hovering about, looking for some food. The weather report had predicted a good chance of salmon falling from the sky, and I’m actually optimistic about the chances, as should you. Sounds fishy, but there’s something dense in the air, some thickness to it all, and milky — I like that. The people here are dressed oddly, with disjunct and wild colors that explode on the bare background.

Descriptions aside, not much is happening. There’s an elderly couple standing sort of isolated, to the side, holding hands and looking at each other. Unlike the others, their eyes are at peace. They don’t seem to wander — not searching for something to latch on to. Even when I walk by right by their feet, they don’t notice me, or at least they don’t react. Maybe they’re blind, in the best possible way. Seeing is a vice. Ignorance is bliss. The others are standing there, awaiting the sun to either set or drop. There’s a significant difference between the two options: a setting sun is much more serene, as you may have guessed already, but a dropping sun, though rare, gives off more spectacular colors, like a Pollock painting or a collapsing rainbow. Neither one happens though, as expected, and we’re all hanging here, by our strings of whatever metaphor you want. And while we’re at it, a helicopter circles overhead, peppering the ground with the sounds of chopped air.

C: We are all searching for ourselves in other people.

C: Happiness is the means to the end that is a peaceful death.

D: Woof?

S: Shut up.

C: The warmth of summer is opposed not by the chills of winter, but by its expectations.

More things: If we carefully observe the topography of the letter “G” (only in its capitalized form), we will see that it is indeed a very ugly letter. Its essence consists of a deformed “C” with a sort of tumor growing out if its end, giving itself the impossibility of grace or balance in its structure. But while its aesthetic is abysmal to say the least, there is an interesting dichotomy that appears in its usage within the context of certain words, like “Greatness” or “Gigantic” or more simply, “God”. The English language is filled with linguistic oddities and phenomena, and this is no exception.

By now we've come to a moment of staleness and stillness, where the energy of the crowd has depleted, and I’m feeling an urge to nap. The dog is about ready to come out now; the “scientists” are waiting in great anticipation, waiting to be met with great disappointment. But I’m indifferent, so I continue thinking about the means and ends of life and other things. The giant metal door opens with a hiss — the “scientists,” with masks and goggles and gloves, enter with hesitation. Soon they pull out on a tray Liz’s remains; it is a most gruesome sight, and I scamper away quickly.

People everywhere are scratching their heads as you and I have retreated to another room, where it is quiet and we can actually hold a conversation without interruption or distraction. Let me continue, and you can listen, as the fluorescent lights begin flickering. Our world is slowly breaking down, decaying. Meow, meow, meow. Communication is important, yes, but I’m afraid you’re slipping away from me (or the other way around). Open the door a little bit, letting in the faint murmurs of the “scientists” trying to explain what has just happened. They won’t get an answer; the photon is long gone by now, having bounced away into the void.

The story ends on a cliffside. Though we want it to be a general cliffside, think of Dover Beach, or something along those lines. The weather is cloudy and cold, with a strong wind blowing inland from the sea. You gaze out to the foamy sea, with both hands clutching your wind-blown jacket. Are you thinking of someone special, or some warmer, happier time and place? Think now, and think of one of those two things — or both. I’ll be by a nearby cottage, lying by a crackling fireplace, speaking to an old, shabby woman, who nods and smiles while listening to my wisdom. You can imagine, of course, that I am quite content, away from the godless, sterile labs — but in some odd ways, I’ll still think back fondly of Schrödinger and his unfortunate dog, and I can chuckle from time to time forever, never.

Saratoga Tales: The Tale of the Pseudo-Intellect

For the sake of context, this piece was the product of an assignment for my AP Literature class, in which we were to write a sort of imitation of Chaucer's style using characters/stereotypes found in high school. I decided to go for somewhat of a self-parody. This is the result. Yay!

Only for the most dimwitted person would it possible to miss the Pseudo-Intellect’s confident strut down the school hallways, the way he angled his head most peculiarly and pridefully. He had a gleaming smile that broke through the dread of the stressed majority of students, and though aloof as he often was, his happiness and undying optimism, even when tinged with arrogance, was contagious; for many, being in his presence was enough to make them stand up a few inches taller and be buried in their books a few inches lower. He always carried two or three books under his arm at all times, in addition to his loaded backpack. There were rumors that his backpack was actually filled with bricks, to give only an impression of having a heavy workload, but he, unflinching in the face of these accusations, dispelled the myth by opening his backpack, revealing three 2-inch binders filled to the brim with binder paper. His accusers apologized.

He apparently read the dictionary in third grade, for fun. As preposterous as that claim was, he was, however, in any conversation, able to produce an air of intelligence and assertiveness; his voice was commanding and his speech was persuasive, and all were keen to hear what he had to say without a desire to interject. Of course, he did not really read the original Latin Bible or Swann’s Way as he claimed, and was rather intent on displaying his thin facade of knowledge. To the more intellectually honest and well-read, it was obvious that the Pseudo-Intellect lacked the necessary information or capacity to warrant such boasting, but it was hard not to be at least slightly impressed by the convincing show he put on day in and day out in each of his seven classes.

So when he found himself on the bus, sitting next to a pretty girl he had not been introduced to, who could have blamed him, with all of his assets of persuasion and showmanship, for telling a tall tale? He most often drew from his childhood, which was in reality pleasant but usually made dramatic, which he then laced with brilliant archetypal plot structures or philosophical reveries. Some of them dragged on longer than others, but there were those, such as the one which is currently having its beginning delayed, that latched on to the listener for reasons of awesome entertainment and the occasional genuine epiphany. And now shall the Pseudo-Intellect’s tale begin:

***

When I was little, like say—I must have around five years old? I spent a lot of time outdoors. And by that I mean the little patch of dried grass in my backyard. I was kind of that proverbial kid that turns dirt with a stick all day, and I remember my mother would always be piping at me to read books and do SAT prep and that I was going to get skin cancer from being out too long even though it was clearly raining. I mean, the rain is what makes it fun, you know? That’s when all the worms and roly polies come out, and when you can actually get a fistfull of dirt (or rather mud) without it just seeping through your fingers.

Anyhow, the playing part isn’t the important part. Being outside, that’s when I was able to connect with nature, you see? Being under the sun, under the trees, singing with the bees, Transcendentalist mumbo-jumbo. Out there in the open air, I was able to really discover myself, and—and clear my thoughts. Before that, I used to think that Santa Claus existed, and that ball was life, and that absolute morality was derived from my parents. There were a lot more assumptions, of course, but I won’t bore you with the details. From the day I was born, I was conditioned to fit in, to conform, to become a sheep of society. But I couldn’t allow that. Never. Especially not after seeing the world, being out in nature, and having revelled in the beautiful sensations outside. The discrepancy was simply too great, and for a while I was in this existential conundrum, unsure of what general philosophy I was to adhere to. I was stuck between the world I saw, and the world I was told to believe in.

I was young, full of energy, but I felt old then, as if the whole age of the universe had just sort of descended onto my shoulders, resting on my back as I sat on that patch of dead grass, churning moist dirt. I dropped my stick. I looked up. I sighed. And then I hung my head, staring down at the ground, silently muttering questions of “why?” and “how?” to the slow-moving worms beneath the soil. I was at once angry and defeated, feeling helpless. The sky seemed larger than ever before.

There, I ruminated over the essential questions of life. Though it was hard, and I often found myself frustrated and without direction, I came to an epiphany. It happened so suddenly, you know, just—out of nowhere. All the answers just rushed into my mind like a raging wind, like the clouds parting, like—

Nonetheless, metaphors aside, here’s the answers that I found that afternoon. Firstly, I realized that in order to succeed in this society, you have to be the best. Like, best best. You can’t just pretend, you can’t just—just fake it all. Act like you know everything, as if glossing the surface and using big words could vindicate you from pretentiousness and arrogance—no, you have to actually know it. Otherwise you’re just a faker, and fakers can only go so far.

Secondly, I realized that honesty isn’t the best policy. Being honest, and the worshipping of it, is just really a tool by the insecure and weak to try and pry the truth out of people. Really, truth be told, honesty is overrated. Appearance over reality. That’s my jam. You got to show people what you have, sell it, force it down their throat and them choke them with it, pump up your muscles and tip on your toes, use any means necessary to lower other people down. Now—now that may sound a little mean, or cruel, but hey, that’s just life, you know? That’s reality. Survival of the fittest, yeah? That was a great realization. Helped me a lot.

Thirdly, it was that you have to know yourself before you know other people. I mean, in a mystical sense, you can only see in others what you see, or at least understand, within yourself. So to me, it’s important for me to keep on thinking deep thoughts, internally probe, search hard and long to know myself, and even more importantly, to expand myself. Not physically, of course, I pride myself in staying fit, but intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. I’ve read all the Wikipedia articles on Neichte and Kant and Aristotle, all their ideas on God and truth and metaphysical stuff. I’ve read Jeffery Chaucer, Shakespeare and all his books and poems, but I also go out of my way to read more recent things too, to keep myself current and all. It’s not all books though, of course. At school, I carefully observe different kinds of students, how they act, how they write, how they talk. Doing so has really opened my eyes as to how I can get better. Get better at what? Well...everything, of course. But anyways, just watching, it helps me avoid social faux pas, and little things like that, small things that would hurt my image, that would diminish my social status. That’s how I stay on top of the game.

So yeah, minus the rather lengthened explanations, that’s what I got from playing outside as a kid.

He Died Tonight

In the depth of night

There was a calling —

Quiet, but so perceivable

Stinging the air (quick vibrations)

He died tonight

(It was expected)

He died in peace

(Thank goodness)

But we live not in peace

(And never will) evil trees

Malice in the clouds

Coughing down acid, and

We melt — slowly, impossibly slow

Listening to the drops

Life oozing by (sand in hourglass)

A broken hourglass, so we’re

Shattered across the floor

Punctured shards —

Deleted time — wasted on love

On things incomplete, finished —

He died tonight

We cried our useless tears —

He died and called

A calling deep and shriveled —

And we shudder — shivering

Throwing sand into the ocean —