And what is trash anyway? It is only some eggshells. It is only some old tomatoes that have been partly chopped before they were found to be moldy on the outsides. It is only what everyone thinks I’m doing when I say “writing,” when I say “living the examined life,” when I say “not eating shark fin soup and not trying to catch the cat and always stealing many ideas and shades of ideas from other people.” And what are other ideas? For an idea to be “other,” there must be some form of normal idea. But normal ideas are boring and make me very tired, like playing Hot Wheels in physics class.
Whatever “normal” is, it might be sitting in the sun. It might be trying to psychically communicate with the stray cat. It might be trying to psychically communicate with the stray cat to tell him to come sit in the sun with me. Normal ideas have to do something with communication. The cat came and sat in my lap and very gently stabbed me with his claws, but I could feel the fur on his wrists, which was very soft. This, too, was communication, although if this was normal is yet unknown to me.
The unknown might be where “non-normal” ideas live. Though we could argue about the viability of ideas out of the womb and if ideas can or cannot be aborted part way through, which itself might be a non-normal idea. Non-normal ideas are slippery like my favorite mug that is now and forever trash.
“Trash,” on the other hand, is only what we are preoccupied with, like art deco, like the many crimes of the cat, like the fate of the bison, like if we are doing it right, like if you’d like chocolate on that, like vertigo, like wondering if I have a disease because I hurt where I was scratched and other people have told me that’s “not normal.” Trash is wanting to say, ‘Tell me what is normal and I will tell you what is wrong with you,’ which usually, for those who wonder, is everything. Trash is the real name for what we call “art”; what we call “modern,” what we call “the publishing industry,” and what we call “subversive”.
The cat produces no trash, yet everything he communicates is clear. He looks at me with his lemony eyes and implores me to believe. I can’t tell if he wants me to believe in what is normal or what is non-normal. This idea is just on the edge of what he is trying to communicate. My eyes implore him back.
As if by prophecy, another cat appeared next to him in the sun. The new cat is almost a baby and must be taught the best places to sit in the sun, how to kill wasps and eat mice. Most importantly, this fresh cat must learn the right way to stab me just a little. These lessons are not trash. If only we could be so fortunate, but humans have to deal with a lot of trash before we reach clarity, if we ever do, which is doubtful since we are a species absorbed with thoughts and ideas and wondering if they are normal or not.
Which, as you may know by now, I have no idea if that is normal or not. There is, I have come to discover, a lot one human can not know about. Like trust, like earning it. Like the stained glass where I looked when I was learning about being damned and immaculate conception and shortly after that regular conception. The stained glass depicted a bald guy with a very shiny head. His hands were up like ‘oh, no!’ but maybe he was thinking something else. Maybe he was thinking about what’s normal. Maybe he was thinking about Hot Wheels. Personally, I think the stained glass could have used some trash, maybe a phone, so the guy could communicate. But maybe he’s a master of all that and can do it psychically, like a cat.
I have a confession. I think the new cat thinks I’m trash. Maybe he thinks I am too normal. Maybe he likes trash and thinks that he is more non-normal than the old cat who loves me and lets me hold him in the sunlight. Maybe the new cat thinks he knows what is important, which is trash. Maybe he thinks I will scratch him. Maybe he thinks he knows everything that will be trash; prophetic as he came, so, prophetically he will go, too.
Maybe still the important part is not what is normal and what is non-normal. Maybe it’s only about what it is.
It is sitting in the sun. It is trying to psychically communicate with the stray cat to tell him to come sit in the sun with me. It is dropping my mug. It is writing and examining and writing somewhat regularly and noticing how that feels and noticing how it doesn’t feel. It is feeling sick. It is feeling better; it is normal and then non-normal. It is Saltburn. It is the Incredible Mr. Limpet. It is Where’s Waldo? It is what I say it is and it is what cannot be said. It is not a good ending; it is not an ending that is strong. It is not an ending of many pages. It is trash.
And what again is “trash” anyway? It is only what we are preoccupied with, like cling wrap, bottle caps, the cute little sayings on Bubbly Tabs, spicy chips and their wrappers, broken keys, old arcade games, syntactical errors that make the mind what it is, old beef, receipts, and other food-related waste. Trash is what the bugs eat, like The Call of Cthulhu, Cujo, The White Album, If It Bleeds, or brown or browning leaves. Trash is the ozone layer—metaphorically connecting together, it is being the only one who shows up to the meeting; having some core values that kind of work out someday, and then you tell everyone that these values are what make you brilliant; it is having a haircut; avoiding sunlight; it is life; it is Apollo.
Trash is generational divides and plastic in the soup dumplings. It is Polar Express, but we are fresh out of Polar. It is not Mr. Fresh, but it is what happened to him. It is only the things we try to be disinterested in, like realising you will never have enough time to live all the lives you want; it is wanting, it is needing, it is concealing the fact. Trash is understanding but only subconsciously, which doesn’t really count. Trash is reading 100 books or trying to. Trash is everything. Trash is a disruption. Trash is stepping outside of the party to smoke; to meet someone by chance, and that person sharing with you some magnitude of feeling. Trash is loving butterflies and living in fantasy. “It is good to have trash to journey towards; in the end, it is the trash that matters.” Trash is poetry; it is stupid, and we should all stop writing. This is progress. This is the best of the best. This is trash.
Rebekah Barnes is from Whitefish, Montana. She is currently trying to find God in Southern Oregon, but He hasn’t gotten back to her yet. If you’ve seen Him let her know @rebekahwrites_.
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