Cortisone Creme for the Soul

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“The two words ‘information’ and ‘communication’ are often used interchangeably, but they signify quite different things. Information is giving out; communication is getting through.” ~ Sydney J. Harris

I’ve been having trouble communicating lately. I could blame it on the old edgewise word insertion technique but I can find no one with enough time to even talk about that. Veridical? Not in this century. Usta be Instagram was something that went up your nose real fast. I’m still not so sure that it isn’t still that. I was striving for palindrome in that sentence but damned if I didn’t fail, and fail miserably at that. It’s a sad truth that miserable don’t hold no sway in the marketplace, not anymore. It’s pretty much a given . . . . . . where was I headed with that anyway? Don’t tell me. It’ll be easier that way. If you want to communicate with me you’d likely be better off talking to someone else. That way I don’t get a chance to respond, rather, and sadly so, to merely scratch my head and wonder, and to sing under my breath, “Doc, it’s only a scratch”. Now . . . if they only made cortisone creme for the soul. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s all too beautiful. It’s chaotic. It makes me want to sing. Where’s irony when you need it? Baby, bath water, duh.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest I can consider making a pot of coffee , which may well spark up my beleaguered brain. Just a bit.

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The photos I share here today are all about flow, with the river I dip my imaginal feet into, and how my mind grinds to a halt, in a gesture that is so fleeting it endears itself to me eternally. It cools my itchy soul just a tad, and the river wind says “yes, don’t stop now”. I’ve not come to bemoan the heat of summer. There’s enough of that on the streets and in the marketplace; there’s no need to try it at home. Besides, the cat would worry. Humans are such odd critters.

I shared a sweet conversation with a sweet woman yesterday. Somehow the Universe was generous with me and allowed me to speak of my mental illness, the psych meds I take daily, and my propensity to edge toward serenity and slowness. I’m not particularly attached to slowness, it’s just that I end up that way at times. Relaxation is the culprit, but I accept all responsibility. When I go with the flow I get edgy, at which point I start making mistakes, but the edginess is wedged like a screwdriver into the flow of this day and age. The screwdriver betrays its designed purpose, which is to fasten things with its circular motion, and instead impales time, in the name of commerce. Get it? This is my Labor Day edition, in which I implore supervisors everywhere to let their friggin underlings breathe, even if only for a moment. If you let only slackers run free you get what you deserve. Free-range slackers’ll do you in every time. Personally, I love to work fast as long as I am given free reign to relax while doing so. So, what does this have to do with my head glitches and psych meds? I don’t know. I just know that I refuse to have Wheaties and Red Bull for breakfast. I don’t even eat breakfast; it slows me down. Do they even make Wheaties anymore? Wasn’t Bruce Jenner on the box at one time?

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“Dammit Jim, what the hell is the matter with you? Other people have birthdays, why are we treating yours like a funeral?” ~ Dr. McCoy, Star Trek

Actually, my birthday is some six weeks away. I’m not planning on being depressed. I hope to be contemplating turning 60 years old, what it means in the scheme of things, and why the hell I can’t get it into my thick head, yet my body is full-bore involved. Isn’t that a pisser?! I mean, my memory is not what it used to be, but really, I mean, how can I know that for sure. I’m not very good at documentation. There are people who seem yo think that I am not too good at any kind of mentation. Put that  in your pipe and smoke it. Then say, “Whoa, dude, I think I just forgot how to think”. I haven’t had a good smoke in I can’t remember when. Poor me. But . . . here on the upswing from two weeks of depression I stand tall and walk on and all that happy horseshit. My late friend, Brother Phil, used to like to say, “. . . and all that happy horseshit”. Philip died from head trauma. His barstool tipped over backward when he laughed just a little to hard. True story. I remember stuff like that. Those are iconic moments in life. As memories, they get to stay.

“Right now I’m having amnesia and deja vu at the same time.” ~ Stephan Wright

Peace out, y’all, I’m goin’ in. Goof gloriously, k?

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About the Cage

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“. . . and there’s a light in the lowlands
and a river that runs so clean
I’m a poor man feelin’ lazy
and the lowlands are callin’ my name” ~ John Dillon, Ozark Mountain Daredevils

Today’s opening photo reminds me that if you are focused on the cage then the animal is out of focus. But maybe that’s just me. I’m not even really sure exactly what that means but it may well piss someone off. Oh well. The beautiful Abby graces our opening photo today. She’s a sweetie, with eyes that hint at both green and amber. I love this animal. Her gentleness is accentuated by the dangerous teeth and claws she possesses. Her poise? Well look at her. You’ll see.

There are coyotes in the vicinity. The neighborhood dogs tell me so but I already knew it because I heard them earlier. All is again quiet, the silence marred only by the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and the tap tap tap that is the collaboration between my fingers and the keyboard. My inner peace is marred only by the waves of visceral anxiety that flood upward from my lower belly, then it attempts to squeeze my lungs but I won’t let it, so it dissipates into the breeze from the fan. It happens again and again, some artifact of genetic makeup, or maybe just a learned behavior. Whatever the source it is something that feels likely to last a lifetime. It used to scare me. It no longer does. Yesterday I wrote briefly about depression, which is also is a companion that seems likely to last a lifetime. As always I seek to learn it’s mysterious secret, and here this morning it is as elusive as can be. The current bout with this mysterious stranger has been at me for two weeks now, and I finally figured out what triggered it. I did something for myself. I went to the Yes concert, a treat that I reckoned I deserved, and it felt like joy. I’m supposed to be selfless, right? Somehow I learned that somewhere – never do anything for myself. It leads nowhere except into the thick shadowland of melancholy. And from there it becomes a recursive element within a shriveled life. How I’m going to get out of this cycle remains to be seen. Maybe I’ll just have to send up a flare, on an orthogonal trajectory, and see who responds, if anybody at all does. I would chose the orthogonal path because the direct approach seems to be prohibited to me for the time being. And the source of said prohibition? It’s the recursive cycle, silly.

Rosie the cat is unusually restless this morning It’s just one more thing that have no answer for. I sit here awaiting the up cycle, confident that it will come soon, maybe today. The prospect of its return makes me a tad happy. Maybe that should be good enough for now. I’ll go on in to work, play with and care for the cats, and wait until the wait is over.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

Adventures In Shadowland

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This is another shorty today. Having a hard time squeezing out the words, and my longer posts flow freely, with little or no planning. This depressive cycle has been going for two weeks now. Mostly it has been more physical and benign. The physical phenomena are mostly odd pains, sluggishness, and this time I am getting a pinpoint headache, always in the same spot. Odd. Not to mention fatigue. Oops. But something triggered me yesterday, I don’t know what, though I have an idea, and it was like one of those high-speed elevators reaching the sub-basement in no time. Whoosh. That’s where I am today. That’s why I am short of words: my mind is fighting to keep up with the energy flow. Although low, this phase of the cycle sparkles big time. It is not lack of energy. On the contrary! I’m fighting it. That is way tiring because this phase, when it comes, is relentless until it is damn well ready to recede. Poor me. I’m being open about it because it needs to be addressed, and although my audience is small as of yet it still allows for an outlet for the issue. I have one reader in Australia, and a brand new one in Puerto Rico. The word spreads, even if silently. The butterfly effect is real. I rely on it. That is why I practice transparency. There are 20,000,000 of us in this country alone, probably more. It really not cool to hide this many people behind an imaginary wall.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Life Tired

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Is a picture worth a thousand words? Not today. I haven’t got a thousand words in me this morning. Tis a cold morning; autumn reaching back to caress, as a reminder of things to come. A lone coyote calls in the dark, only once, then it is gone and the silence prevails once again. Cat at my side. Coffee coming right up. Arthritic thumbs both acting up. I’m experiencing a perception that I think of as “life tired”. It’ll pass. It’s just a thing that portrays the weight of a lifetime rather than the lightness of being that will soon flow. It’s not pessimism. Pessimism is a downer, this is not. This is an existential phenomenon all dressed up as subjectivity, which is exactly what it is. A puzzle to be savored for it is whether solved or not. Either way it goes away. That’s good to know.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Regarding Taylor Swift

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“I am he as you are he as you are me
And we are all together” ~ the Beatles

Late on the coffee – sorry. I know that it is possible that you are not drinking it, but it does have an affect on what you are reading. It’s kinda like how a guy or gal on Red Bull can be tailgating you on the freeway at 60 mph, totally oblivious to the laws of physics. I’m not suggesting that I am of any danger to you, but there are those who would postulate otherwise. The postulators likely don’t read EyeYotee anyway, not anymore, which makes it all the easier for me to relax. As hard as I have tried I cannot fathom not trying to be good at something I have committed myself to being good at. Wait . . . . . . ya know, I was fixin’ to get myself into a heap of nonsense there, as if good sense makes any difference anymore, so I will stop and then try to see if mediocre works. I’m afraid it does.

Our opening photo today is of a very big Shepard named Cooper. As big as he is, he likes to cuddle himself into a little igloo shell designed for smaller dogs, but because he is so big he can do as he likes, amid the enforced patterns of the animal shelter which provides him . . . um . . . shelter. It’s not safe out on the street. Anyway, I snapped the photo of Cooper while he lounged in the Senior’s Yard at the shelter. As I snapped away I could hear him muttering, “Danged wheel; it seemed like such a good idea at first” Ya see, his kind, Cooper’s kind, have not evolved nearly so much as we humans have. I reckon they didn’t need to. Ponder that, me hearties.

I’ve not been right since I returned from my nine mile trek along the gorge’s edge, two days ago. Then, I acquired access to the calm and open mind I’d been graced with as a result of my birth. I’m not saying I made a mistake. I’m just saying it is not safe out on the streets, nor in the marketplace. I could get into a rant here, but I’d like to avoid a rant by walking along the edge of doing so. Hear tell a former adversary of mine, a person who treated me like shit for years, and had their functionaries do so as well, has suddenly treated someone else like shit. Go figure. It ain’t politically correct to claim a pattern of behavior. That sort of thing went out of style back in the Reagan era, when political correctness saw it’s advent, when positive thinking became a carnival ride, which all looks like a pattern but it ain’t. Trust me, this is true because I say so.  This is where karma comes in. Friggin caustic folks get off the hook, much too easily. If they treat someone like sh*t . . . well . . . that’s just their station in life. No harm no foul. And if there is a foul justice can best be served by applying bias as a rule. Harm? My bad. What I am on about here is that there is someone I’d really like to slap upside the head, in a metaphorical manner, but I can’t because it ain’t a good idea. That puts me on the spot, where anxiety is born. Sometimes good ideas suck. Now is one of those times. Poor me.

Last night I downloaded a recent photo, of Julia Roberts at the Emmys, onto my desktop. When I open my browser window I can see her eyes above the edge of the window. Now, I’ve seen those very eyes up close, maybe four feet away, in person, in realtime, and I liked what I saw, the sight touched my soul. There are those (mostly female) who would disparage me for putting Julia’s eyes up like that. Heck, I once had Taylor Swift up there. It’s the goddess I’m looking at; the Divine Feminine. I have no right to pick and choose who I see it in and who I don’t. Besides, there are numerous women I would like to put up on my desktop, but their photos ain’t available on the internet. There are parameters in life. I must abide.

I know that I have perhaps been obscure in today’s post. Obscurity is one of my guilty pleasures. Taylor Swift is also one of my guilty pleasures. I have more. But I have no more time to write, I must go to work, where I can see Cooper in his nutshell, and where animals are given shelter in an animal shelter. Who knew.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

Ride the Rising Wind

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“Your heart is the correspondent of your soul. It knows the grooves of joy.”  ~ Karen Ruimy

High haze subdues the stars, and they say it will rain today. A flash flood warning has been cast forth from the professional weather folks. Flash floods can be both serious and awesome. A river where there was none can be disconcerting to our perceptions. At least it can for me. But as I look at it from this side of the workday I am as calm and clear in the moment as I am capable of being. Which says a lot. After what is now years of learning, of training, to reign back the awesome power of anxiety to go all automatic on me, I have achieved a calmness of the mind and a semi-calmness of the heart. It’s the body beyond the heart that hasn’t gotten the message yet, which is to chill, so the heart gets stretched between body and mind. Is that what they mean by “mind-body problem“? It isn’t but it is, but I’ll not get into that here this morning. Not today. I overdid myself yesterday and things just ain’t the same today as a result. I didn’t mean to do it. Really. I can blame it on the tree. That’s it you see in the opening photo. I wanted to see it. When I got near to the tree, along a trail of high desert beauty and solitude, a  Scotsman on a bicycle gave me the news: “You’ve walked 4.5 miles, laddie”. He didn’t really say “laddie”, I just added that for impact. It’s a gonzo journalism thing. But the man really was a Scotsman on a bicycle, a trail bike, sweet and shiny, obviously expensive. His data was precise. He had a computer on his handlebars. As he rode away I eyed the rise between me and the tree. I was only about a half mile from my goal by then so I walked on. Why not? I’d come this far. Onward. Damn the data. After all, it merely made me anxious about the walk back. I’d had nothing to eat yet, not since waking. The tree was a juniper, the only one on the meadow outcropping along the edge of the gorge. Not nearly as big as I had imagined. Maybe 12 foot high, but enough to provide shade. The shade was the first thing I pursued upon arrival. The day was blazing hot.

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Having refreshed myself with water and rest I rustled up my intention and started back. There was a bit of wooziness but the walk went well. Circumstances slowed me down but my legs held tight. I found out I was in better shape than I thought. Working with shelter cats was enough to keep me fit: cats with benefits. Nice. I noticed that the whole of the trail was filled with yellow flowers, which reminded me of the famous Yellow Brick Road, and so it became just that, on a metaphorical level. I used the loosening of my mind from the daily routine to enter archetypal territory. What was usually restrained in great measure had become as open as the blinding blue sky above me. But I knew it was not a triumph of my own. The hawks had given me the key. About one mile from the one tree I had been sitting in the shade of another tree, steeling myself to go on to my goal. That tree was quite near to the vertigo-inducing gorge. As I sat a bird came by, riding the updraft of heated air, along the edges of the gorge. A dark bird. I reckoned it was a raven, but in looking at it I changed my mind and called it a buzzard. The bird flew out over the gorge then wheeled about to head back at me. I’d become an item of notice, but as the bird wheeled about I saw that it was a hawk – a zone-tailed hawk. It was watching me like a hawk. And it had a fiend. The two of them did a couple of fly-bys and then headed along their way. The two of them had handed me a Totem gesture of power and grace. I accepted it, knowing what a precious gift it was. That acceptance was the point where I crossed over, from the mundane into the world of magic.

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When the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge came into sight I felt relieved. I could see it from the far out place I’d been, but then it was tiny, and it had told me then how far I had to go to get back. Upon this closer view I knew that a little park bench was not far from where I stood, and the parking lot at the trail head was only a half mile beyond that. I sat on that bench for quite a while, contemplating my journey. It was good. The scene before me was better. Beauty surrounded me. It always does. After the rest stop I headed back. When I was close to the end of my trek I noticed a man in black shorts and black shirt. He was headed along the trail toward me. As he came close he said, “Breaking as sweat are we?”. He had a foreign accent. Our conversation was sweet relief from the existential silence I had been within. It turned out we knew each other, from when I was a cashier at the natural foods supermarket that eventually became a bane to my existence. He said to give him a call and we would hike together some time. He then noted that he was all goofy with joy from taking a day off from his business to break it’s ponderous spell. He told me where his place of business was and then he started to walk on, but I called back to him, “What’s your accent?”. And so I came to see that there was a South African at one end of the trail and a Scotsman at the other.

The moral of the story: you never know who you will meet out there. As I sit here this morning I can feel it. I crossed over an obstacle yesterday, and did so because my curiosity got the better of me. My intent had been to sit on that little park bench then head back home. But from the bench, before the journey, I could see the juniper, from over four miles away, and something told me to go there. So I did. Maybe it wasn’t a smart thing to do, empty stomach and all. That matters not. Not now. Before, my life had reached a sticky place where I felt trapped. Upon seeing the two hawks a shift occurred, and that shift swept me up and out of a hard place, not actually changing the circumstances of my life. It simply changed me instead. That’s it. That’s what happened. Shift happens.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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Talking to the Animals

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What to do about stress? When you are stuck in a situation where there seems to be no way out? Chill. Roger here is willing to give you a graphic hint, but in no way will he demand you take his demonstrative advice. He gives it for free. It’s free but you don’t have to take it. Roger nailed me the other day. I was cleaning his cage and he wanted to play. He was playing. One thing that seems to be ubiquitous with cats is that when you are trying to accomplish your work they will always choose to sit or lie exactly where you are working. Their skill at determining the exact most central focus of your work is as eerie as it is precise. When Roger laid this trip on me I did what I could by boosting and gently shoving. Roger thought I was playing. He embraced my forearm and began to kick with his powerful hindquarters. Friggin strong cat! They all are strong but some have the championship potential. The tiny wounds Roger graced me with are not yet fully healed. And I remind myself how peaceful and comic he is when sleeping. What a clown. What a champ. He practices restraint – a noble quality.

I’m having a third cup of coffee this morning. It’s 44 F degrees, a little bit of autumn creeping in. The window behind my desk is open and I shiver slightly. The air is fresh, making the shivers worth it. It reminds me of life in the same way that walking barefoot in the snow does. I lived in the sub-tropics for 23 years. Coolness has a strong effect on me as a result because I went without for so long. Like I said: it reminds me of life, which is good.

Back to the cats. I consider myself to be way lucky to work with these critters. There’s the clown factor, which rides shotgun with the awe I feel at the capabilities that Nature has provided to these animals. Friggin awesome! Their sweetness and loving affection does not hide their fearsome abilities. Most everyone knows how they are. My mom had this thing she did when beholding a cat. She would do this little inhaling hiss, a sound I can’t to this day describe, but when I heard it I knew she was blown away by the beauty before her. Again and again and again. I know that I inherited this propensity for awe from her. She’d be right pleased to know that I am now taking care of cats for a living. Likely she does know. It would be just like her.

Readers of EyeYotee might like to know that, if everything goes well, I will be writing the official blog on the upcoming upgraded Taos Stray Hearts Animal Shelter’s website. The executive director gave me the news yesterday. I am thusly honored. I’ll have fun, no doubt. She gave me free reign as to what I can write. Animal stories are way fun to write, but people work there too. They will get their due.

This all brings me back to the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness, which states:

“The absence of a neocortex does not appear to preclude an organism from experiencing affective states. Convergent evidence indicates that non-human animals have the neuroanatomical, neurochemical, and neurophysiological substrates of conscious states along with the capacity to exhibit intentional behaviors. Consequently, the weight of evidence indicates that humans are not unique in possessing the neurological substrates that generate consciousness. Non- human animals, including all mammals and birds, and many other creatures, including octopuses, also possess these neurological substrates.”

“The capacity to exhibit intentional behaviors”? Ever have a cat hit ya with a mind game? You can see that they are fucking with your head; you can see it in their eyes. That’s what I’m sayin’. This capacity is what makes working with them all the more challenging, and equally fulfilling. These are conscious critters. They can feel and emote with them best of us. Qualities and abilities that we humans once claimed as ours alone are not that at all. It’s life, plain and simple. One of our volunteers is a neurobiologist. I’ll have to ask her about the Cambridge Declaration. She is adamant and generous in giving to the cats. She knows. I know she knows. Maybe we can talk. That would be cool as all get out. 

It’s that time. Sunrise has begun and twilight holds the court as I wrap up yet another post at EyeYotee. I’ve got other things on my mind besides animals, I just couldn’t get to it this morning. Some things I did not want to write about. Sometimes silence is best when mystery and the potential for discovery are afoot in the land. And Magic. Of course. And yer like dude’s acting all tricky and stuff. Yeh, maybe.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

 

 

The Foundations of the Resiliency

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A soft and steady rain fell well into the afternoon yesterday. I had to take a jaunt into town to do my laundry. The laundromat was busy. I’d waited too long. I got a crowd where I’d expected quiet and room to move. I still had room to move. It was simply less room than I prefer. And the quiet I had to achieve by making it an inward thing rather than an external thing. Not so bad. I’m usually not that flexible. Inner quiet is probably healthier anyway.

Today’s opening photo is of Zach, a sweet tomcat who came into the animal shelter just a few weeks ago. He was at first one of those guys that huddled into the corner of his cage, there in the intake room, obviously depressed, obviously afraid, and pretty much resistant to food. We worked with him, got his medical stuff done, culminating with a blood test to rule out any nasty diseases, then carted him over to the cattery, where we worked with him further, and now he is a socially well-adjusted cat. When I say we worked with him I am referring to a practice that entails significantly more personal attention than cats usually get, something we don’t always have time for since there are more cats than time allows when it comes to anymore than attention given while cleaning their cages. I talk to them while I clean their cages. They like that. They like whatever we can give them but I believe that a loving voice is the best. So Zach came around. He is no longer depressed. Depressed cats need the extra attention, and if you tell them to snap out of it they remain depressed. There’s no sense in offering them stupid advice when what they need to pull out of their depression is calming supportive vocalization, not some snarky display of patronization. They are just like people. They can sense the intentions behind words. They know that being told things, things that are of little use, is a red herring in that logic would suggest being supportive rather than authoritative. Authoritative folks tell instead of listening. What good is that?

I discuss depression here because I suffer from it as a chronic condition. It’s not because I wan to. What’s the sense in that? Avoidance of responsibility? As a shield against injustice? A hoax contrived to fool people into believing that disease actually exists? I don’t know. I fool myself at times as well, except when the fooling comes around I believe that the disease doesn’t exist. That makes no sense either. I once managed to believe that my feet didn’t exist, even though they obviously did. Subsequently, when I went to take a step I fell right over. Belief does a poor job of trumping actuality. That’s what I’m sayin’.

Odd mood today. Think I’ll leave it at that. I’ll enjoy being with the cats, especially since odd moods are very good when working with cats. Cats are friggin weird animals anyway. Oddness becomes them. And they are very good at getting in the way. I gotta admire that kind of talent. Oddly enough depression does not really get in the way. It is the way. All that matters is where you go, not how you get there – psychologically speaking, that is. But depression isn’t really a psychological condition so much as it is a condition that has psychological components. In this way it is very much like anybody’s life. The only way you can snap out of it is to end it, which is not a very productive way of achieving productivity.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Upon the Wisdom of Cats

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Marisol

“Nobody has a right to speak more clearly than he thinks.” ~ Alfred North Whitehead

I’ve got this image, drawn from the staggeringly spacious feeling I have today, that the archives of most of my life, with the demarkation for ‘most’  being the first book that I read all on my own, have been opened wide by some unidentified force, and as I stand at the threshold of the grande lyceum I realize that I feel like shit. The opportunity of a lifetime, to have the fetters of socialization and habit be torn asunder as I slept, all comes to me in a startling manner, and I yawn, I stretch, pour more coffee, glance at the pretty and low gray overcast, put off heading out to the laundromat, scratch my head once again, and again. There’s an endless number of things a fella could do when respiratory illness cranks up the volume of the gravity, making upright seem somehow interminably cruel. But I can do it. In a little while. Okay?

So what was the book? A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L’Engle, A Newbury Award winner that, as it turns out, is a parable for adults, written as a kid’s book, because some ideas and dreams are too large to fit into the restrictive parameters of adult prose. Go figure. The very first book I choose to read turns out to be a mind-bender. That explains a lot. I reckon that makes me well qualified to do my own laundry.

I know that it is love that opened this door for me today, the kind of love that slips right out when the coffers of the heart turn into butterflies, which are all still shaking off the embryonic fluid just as a cat shakes off an invisible nothing as they emerge from a cardboard box. I am surrounded by cats every workday. Perhaps their wisdom is finally sinking in? Yeh maybe. But it is more than that. I recently made way more connections than I am used to. That requires stretching. I stretched, something snapped. I see a smile in the green room of life and I think I know who it is but I cannot be certain; it might be me, but I think not. I’d rather not be certain until my certainty is itself certain. Ponder that, my friends! But I am pretty sure that life and love are pretty much the same thing, and the pretty little feelings eventually become big, broad dazzlers, cast before us like dice, like music, like dreams, like transcendence and transformation disguised as respiratory illness. That’s what I’m sayin’.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously

When Inspiration Bites

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“A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Cats are hard to photograph, but here’s a good one. Her name is Tessie and she is the one who bit the crap out of me about two months ago. I forgave her on the spot. Here’s why. We both had different agendas, hers to maintain harried freedom and mine to put an end to that freedom. Having slipped out of her cage she was running about the cattery. When I grabbed her she did the natural thing: she bit me. My intricately designed right index fingertip took the hit. I know I’m retreading old material here. It comes because I finally got a nice photo of the culprit, who will now let me pet her again, and the incident itself had such a powerful impact on me. Actually, it mystifies me as to how I have come to make this into a powerfully positive event. I might have to remind myself that this can be done. I also just realized that I used the word “powerful” twice in one paragraph. I’m starting to sound like Gregg Braden, eh? I know Gregg. He’s a good spirit, but I don’t know if he ever got cat bit.

I’m finally equipped with coffee. The morning is nearly cold, temperature down to 44 F. There is a low hum of joy in my heart because of this little taste of autumn. I wanted to capitalize “autumn” but the online style guide said no. I’m forever doing stuff like that when I am writing. I research and sometimes simply take a tangent out for a spin. I’m never disappointed. And I learn new things, some of which I really should have remembered in the first place. So it goes.

The opening quote of today’s post intrigues me. Mr. Hemingway has a point, no doubt. It makes me wonder what kind of world it would be if humans displayed emotional honesty, and I also wonder if Ernest wondered the same thing. His writing has been an inspiration to me yet I find him hard to read. His A Moveable Feast is the only of his books I actually enjoyed. The others I did not finish, but I took note of his style and came out with a feel for his sometimes staccato syntax. Dude could write. The truth is that I have not much studied the classic American writers, except for Mark Twain, and Henry David Thoreau.

I can’t seem to concentrate well this morning. I’ve got some respiratory muck going on but it isn’t enough to knock me down. Maybe I have let little cat sneezes distract me from taking care of my own health, and I admit that I haven’t been doing much to help my own. I’ll own that, and I will contemplate that at the laundromat tomorrow. I actually enjoy the laundromat. Go figure. It is a temple of meditation for me. I can’t explain it. Nor am I kidding about it. I enjoy it. It’s that simple.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously, k?