“Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.” ~ Dylan Thomas
By the feet of the dark moon I linger in a surprising mood, not meaning to indulge I do so anyway, and it seems to be just the right thing at the right time. I feel deep sadness from the loss, twenty years ago, of a woman I considered to be my soulmate. After all this time a tone of joy has finally set in with the sadness that abides. Lucky me. Let’s call it integration and then step forth to see what sadness has become. I loved her so much it seemed perfect, which of course it was. Fifteen years, our age difference made her appear to be wary but I could sense that she was not. I was only 40 then. She didn’t see it that way. She was scared. So was I but I had fifteen more years of practice than she had. Fear did not hold me back, especially when my soul’s fire wagged it’s glowing finger at fear and told it to friggin back off. Lady Di, my close friend, told me that Lori and I emanated an aura of roses as she and I sat at the bar with beer and cigarettes in front of us unattended. Such was the depth and power of our communion, of our conversation, of our eyes locked in and probing. Yeah, she loved me too. I never asked her to prove what didn’t need proving. I’m not daft however, I know that my good fortune is unblemished. I still feel her around at times. Whether that feeling is of the mind or of the soul my good fortune precedes me. Love stories are like that. Retrospect dampens a precious thing.
Now, about the opening photo. No, that cat ain’t dead, she’s just lounging. Isabella is the queen of the cattery. We let he out to walk around, leaving her cage door open should she choose to go back in. Sometimes she does. In the photo she is on our work table. Silly girl. I am so fortunate to work where I do. The love in the room is palpable. You can’t go wrong with that. Believe you me, it don’t get no better than that so don’t even try it. You detractors of cat prison stand advised to remove your own gates, those which seal you own objective assumptions into conceptual cages. Yeah. Don’t get me riled, I ain’t got the strength today to go all Zen and stuff. I have work to do. On my wages I can’t afford to go to a seminar or retreat. My Zen is street Zen. My graffiti comes through speech. I yak at them cats all day long. Lucky me.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.