A cat scratch, a portal

There’s a photograph of a ceiling hanging on our wall. It was taken at an angle, from below and to the side, in a construction zone, with stairs leading up into an attic with no roof, and a free-floating lightbulb hanging from a cord attached to a pendulous plank of wood. Except for the light in the attic opening, the photo is very dark, different shades of black. It is often easier to see reflections in the photo frame than to see the contours of the photo itself. Seth and I can’t decide which of us took this photo. Early in the pandemic, we took photo walks around the neighborhood, often with some prompt like “contrast” or “curves.” We both remember this construction zone and we both remember taking this photo, but it wasn’t until after we blew it up and printed it that we realized our conflict. We both like the photo, though, even though it’s difficult to explain why.

Our cat Mondo agrees, it seems, because lately he’s been spending all his time plopped in front of this photo. He’s just figured out how to launch himself from the couch to the top of the bookshelf, giving him a front row seat of our mysterious construction closeup. Often he stares at our apartment from this new vantage point with satisfied blinks. But several times a day he decides that something is wrong, something is very, very wrong with our apartment, and it all has to do with this photo. He turns to the photo and digs. It looks…