Response 3 (Cat Person)

    Texting in Kristen Roupenian's "Cat Person" functions as the haunting link of failed connection between Margot and Robert, while simultaneously, navigating the story's underlying messages of power dynamics within age difference. When looking between the complex relationship of Margot and Robert, texting seems to be the sole source of communication as their in-person dialogue is clumsy and lacking of sustenance. What do the text messages reveal about the characters of Robert and Margot? Who can they pretend to be when the eyes of the other are not there? When the screens fall, what is left? For Robert, technology falls under his manipulation and he uses it as a source to display an internally desired version of himself that he has formed:

"...over the next several weeks they built up an elaborate scaffolding of jokes via text, riffs that unfolded and shifted so quickly that she sometimes had a hard time keeping up. He was very clever, and she found that she had to work to impress him" (Roupenian 1). 

    Robert, within the texting realm, has a charm that appeals to Margot, but he awkwardly positions himself as a dominant person for Margot––always trying to deepen a joke that does not quite exist in reality, to seem more intellectual than she. In person, this wanted domination does not seem to translate to Margots perspective, as to her, he is soft and sentimental. After the sex, Robert exhaustingly tries to see if Margot is submissive under him, which she unwillingly is, the complex character of Margot is unveiled and left almost completely untouched by Roupenian. Margot appears to not be deeply troubled by the events, but her actions tell otherwise. She ignores Robert and avoids him in public, and texting, while feeling intense guilt and bondage towards him. Robert, seemingly confused, but probably manipulatively, texts her after seeing her out at a bar: 

"Maybe I was too old for u or maybe you liked someone else" 

"Is that guy you were with tonight your boyfriend" 

"???" 

"Or is he just some guy you are fucking" 

"Sorry" 

"When you laguehd when I asked you if you were a virgin was it because youd fucked so many guys" 

"Are you fucking that guy right now" 

"Are you"

"Are you" 

"Are you" 

"Answer me"

"Whore" (Roupenian 15). 

    Roupenian leaves the reader with these text strands as the ending to "Cat Person" providing an elusive, emotionally charged conclusion to an uncomfortable story. Robert seems to still want the power over Margot, as his texts are degrading and manipulative, and Margot simply wants to move on and pull herself away from him. In "Cat Person" texting becomes a dystopian world for courtship, power plays that are grotesquely real in a society that builds relationships online. With the evasive ending, the reader becomes forced to make their own amends to the story, but also to think broadly on what it was Roupenian was trying to say between blurred lines. 

Response 2 (Chatbox Conversation)

Vkitor Vasnetsov - Seraphim sketches for the cathedral in Kiev - 1893

Imagine Death as Burning Devotion

Seraphim: Hello. 

Do you know where you are? 

Girl: No, I have fallen. Do you know where I am? 

Seraphim: Yes, you are within the wings of my eye. 

You have come to me, with burning devotion for the one inside me. 

Girl: Oh, have I died? 

Seraphim: You have moved on from flesh previous, 

here, you are at the core of existence. 

You have not fallen. 

Girl: Am I one of you? 

Seraphim: You have always been one of me. 

You have taken my form. You are built with two sets of wings. 

You stand closest to God. 

Girl: I was good wasn't I? No one knew, but I knew. 

Seraphim: Yes, you have been very good. 

What did you know, angel? 

Girl: I knew I had wings. 

I knew God placed himself in me. 

I felt him. I found a way to exist where he could see.

Seraphim: But child, you must know, this is an ability of all. 

We have all had God, it is how we came to be here. 

We are not God. 

Girl: Yes, I know. We are the light surrounding, 

we are pure. 

Seraphim: Yes. Do you feel complete? 

Girl: I don't know. 

I feel infinite. 

Seraphim: You are. 

Do you wish to meet God? 

Girl: Yes. 

I must know his tongue. 

Seraphim: You will. 

We all do. 

Girl: Good, very good. 

 

Response 1

                                                     Christina's World, by Alex Kanevshy, 1963

(Gods) Stained Glass

 The Internet is a small chapel, and within it, a constant urge to consume. To bite the very flesh of invisibility, where celestial figures exist in white dollies on social screens. Their own gentleness meant for you. In between the internet is the fabrics of time, and those we wish to lick. The velvets, silks, cottons and linens. A light presses them, and beneath you are shrouded by a hand of intense, tight cornered aumbries. Where the sun sneaks around corners, fancying tree limb and leaf. You are circling in yourself, creating a sphere of all the niches you slide between. There is you and something you want to eat. Then there is someone else crouched, eating. You, in this gravity, them in their ecstasy of gluttony. A room not quite here nor there, but you know the lush green hills outside. Constantly rolling, folding themselves to no rhyme. Together you will eat the other. In this little place of worship, the flesh will split. Wings will almost birth themselves from your small backs, (The internet lets these things happen). We bend ourselves into sweeter rinds of fruit, hoping to find the center. We are close enough to the end (to god) so I can tell you, that I have eaten too. I have skinned these things. There is no center. The internet is just there begging us to eat bones. Little angels do not sing, they crack and crack. Break and break. You can crawl to the pews, lay there a while, unbroken, starving. You will return, hungry. We are left no choice but to eat and pray and those who do not, find themselves thinning and silent. I have done this too, for my own self preservation. I wanted to mummify myself against the odds. I came back hungry and relentless. When the doors open, and you see the hills and the drained grass, you will feel some humanistic urge to run. To go and lay in the grass, though it is itchy. You will want to arch yourself to the world, make yourself vulnerable, though you used to always cover your breast. There is nothing here that is permanent besides desire. The chapel will one day fall into itself and we will go down with it. Why should we not eat? We are cannibals to a shunning God, looking for forgiveness and shame. We will never go out the door. Our guilt weighs us heavy like glittered balloons. We hope, when this is all said and done, the sun will find us again. 

Tranquil, and prepared to take away our filth like a mother. 

"BATH & GOD"

DEAR DIARY, 

I am in a hot bath. My religion is vulnerable in my palms. It is a wash rag, dirty. When squeezing the red bellied dignity, a soapy foam slides down my sacrificial wrists. I picture myself on a cross, slightly. But also, I am lying in the sun, stretched out to be impelled by gooey gold. Or I am making a snow angel in a world of dead trees. The only thing moving for miles. All of that is the same thing. The bones of God are everywhere and that's just where I find them. Hell, even a bird looks bent and double jointed now. The tips of my finger are pruning, changing. In a hot bath, there is shedding. If the Buddhists are right, if Franny and Zooey are right, then God is in me. This truth makes things harder.  

DEAR DIARY, 

I cut my hair. It was mostly for the baths. I got tired of sinking too far. My hair was getting sopping wet. I got a bob and bangs. I feel like Joan of Arc. Without the resilience or memorability of it all. Now I can float wonderfully. This is the closest thing to my mother's womb. The last time I felt curious. A place of small thuds, mumbled voices. Floating without consciousness. The problem is that no one told me to come out. I made that decision. It is my biggest regret. I would have spent a lifetime inside my mother. The warm, plushy compulsion. If God is in me, then this is where he intervened. This was my come to Jesus. I wanted to stretch her life-sized belly further, to the bounds of everything. In my mother, I am safe.  

DEAR DIARY,  

I am 21 and it seems like everyone is dying or giving birth to boys. To be born seems a means to suffer. I hope to never die. I hope to have a daughter. Nothing phases me anymore. Not even God in my skin. God in everything. God every-damn-where. One day, I will give birth in a bath. This, I know for certain. Let the baby come gently. Or she can stay. I don’t mind. I will try to make things lighter for them, but can I do that? Truthfully, I don’t think so. What am I to do when she enjoys hot baths? Believes in God? Finds evidence of God everywhere? Cuts her hair short? Hate me sweetly for the curse I gave her? Then, maybe, will I accept death? Accept another 21 years and boom, right there, a younger version of all that I know? Will I wonder and question? Can I teach her love in this slumped place? My bath is getting cold. I have shriveled past time.  

I have changed again. 

(Drain. Rinse. Bathe.)  

(Drain. Rinse. Bathe.) 

 

Me finding comfort in the "Library of Babel" by Borges: