In Your Eyes

Yin Yang Terrier 018 (2)

“All my instincts, they return
And the grand facade, so soon will burn
Without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside”  ~  Peter Gabriel

First light, first coffee. A good day ahead. It doesn’t really feel like a writing morning. Too much has changed in the past week. I’ve yet to digest it all. Or even part of it. However presumptuous it may sound I will declare it to be all good and figure out the details at a later time. This is very unlike me. There’s the problem with arguably clear perception and there are other problems as well. This good coffee can’t fix anything but the second cup will arrive momentarily regardless. Perhaps clarity will be right on its heels? I’d like that. Add the daily meds, calm the agitated parts of me, which are many, and ease the mind into the day. Yes, I already called the day a good day. There’s no reason why it can’t be. Stranger things have happened. Heck, something strange happened yesterday, and I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time. Close though, but not like this. You readers will have to accept this as a mystery. I do. It’s not the kind of mystery that will crack open my hermitage but it most definitely will light it up, inside out. Boy howdy that’s really all I can ask for. I’m talking quality of life here. After ten weeks of austerity measures I have breathing room once again. The urge to metaphorically run out and exploit my flickering sense of freedom will remain an urge. It’s not time to act. Not at all. It’s time to smile then casually contemplate what happened yesterday, like, ya know, the mystery and all that stuff. Yesterday my eyes failed to deceive me, like they so often do. Sometimes you don’t get the chance to form an opinion, or even a reasonable assessment. Sometimes reality simply taps you on the shoulder and says dude step out of the moment and move a little. There’s no need for enlightenment today, not with a shining mystery to be had. I’ll move right along with that. And I will chat with cats as I move through my work day. It’s one of those days when a hiss is as good as a purr. Yes, nice.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Day In a Life

IMG_2662

Long distance runaround
Long time waiting to feel the sound
I still remember the dream there
I still remember the time you said goodbye
~   Yes, Long Distance Runaround

One of the heroes from my adolescence has died, passed over, passed away, whatever. Yes, 43 years later he is still an inspiration, even in his death. Last August, the year 2014, I had the ginormous honor of seeing him perform in concert, down at the Route 66 Casino just west of Albuquerque. The man is Chris Squire, the band is Yes. “My my, hey hey, rock and roll is here to stay”, as Neil Young sang. Chris was 67 when he died; young. Others, still performing, Uncle Neil at 70, Paul McCartney at 73, Keith Richards at 72, Chuck Berry at 89(!)  .  .  .  and many many more. Maybe it is something about rock and roll, who can say. Yes, I’ve got a hero. The band was pitch-perfect last August. Seamless, tight. Thanks, Chris. RIP, man. Good journey my good sir.

Yes, I used yet another kitten photo today. Cats are the most popular thing on the internet. Go figure. It gets people’s attention. But mostly I simply adore kittens. They make me laugh; little clowns. It’s a very good thing they cannot fly. What then? I shudder to think of it. But moving on  .  .  .  with my full hours returned at work I am breathing easier, thank you, and my gratitude to the org. is bright. Thanks, folks. Hey, ya wanna see some kittens? Come look. Dang me, I was gonna leave the kittens and get on to other issues. Let’s go. I can’t begin to describe how I felt when I got the news about Chris Squire. It was big. Something shifted in me, something bright emerged unbidden. All y’all regular readers know by now that my serious writing tends to be sourced in death and dying. What I see with Chris is that because of the connection I feel with him I saw through the opening in the Veil that let him pass over into wherever it is that he went. Dude like send me a postcard dude. That opening of the Veil sent bright Light my way, a Light I have seen before. It’s a mystery. There are many people, countless people, who do not believe in the afterlife. Heck, I don’t believe in Donald Trump but there ya have it, my friends. I rest my case. Friggin nitwit.


I just went out through the gate to watch the sun crest the high mountain peaks. As I sat there a raven flew across the face of the sun. It flickered ever so lightly. I smiled. Legend has it that Raven gave us the sun, set it free from a hoarding man who wanted it for himself. There’s a lot of those around these days ( I’m talking to you, Mr. Trump). I’m ready for the day, for cats, for kittens, for walking through this life on my way toward eternity. Most days it is a pleasant stroll. Let’s get to it, k?

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

An Afternoon Movie

IMG_7307

Catnip in bloom.

“To amuse oneself in order that one may exert oneself, as Anacharsis puts it, seems right; for amusement is a sort of relaxation, and we need relaxation because we cannot work continuously.”  ~  Aristotle

Rosie the cat is in and out of the cat door. The rooster is unusually quiet this morning. Pale dawn light turned the hazy mountains blue. And I am tired from six days in a row of work. That’s a lot of cat exposure! The point is, I guess, that corralling words from my spinning mind this morning would parallel the old adage about herding cats. Don’t try this at home. That’s what I’m sayin’. And the anxiety? Pretty darned intense today. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Practice makes for skill. There is work to be done in the morning, but me thinks that being parked in my chair, with a cold beer, and a movie streaming out from the computer monitor, will be just the thing. Boy howdy that just might relax my body and mind altogether. Wish me luck, my friends.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously. I do.

The Grace of Kittens

IMG_2645

“If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.”  ~  Mark Twain

I never expected to see much more social justice during the remained of my lifetime, yet here it is; several triumphs within only a few weeks. I will not list them, then news sites make it all clear enough. But the point is that I can relax and focus (such as it is) on the dear little things, like the photo above which shows the tail end of a cat at play. So many such sights grace my day. I am lucky indeed. And there is also coffee in the world; and love. And kittens, which are the most insane animals in existence. Gotta love it.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gracefully and gloriously.

Played Safe

Scraggly  018

“I covet truth; beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth.”  ~  Henry David Thoreau

“Without you, without your onslaughts, without your uprootings of us, we should remain all our lives inert, stagnant, puerile, ignorant both of ourselves and of God. You who batter us and then dress our wounds, you who resist us and yield to us, you who wreck and build, you who shackle and liberate, the sap of our souls, the hand of God, the flesh of Christ: it is you, matter, that I bless.”   ~  Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

I’m going to play it safe this morning. The first light of morning is here and the cock is crowing. It’s quite funny to hear the younger rooster mimicking his elder as he aspires toward doing the adult thing. A full day of being a servant to cats awaits me. In a way I am a servant to people as well but most if not all of them take care of their own needs. The cats rely on me, but we all, cats and crew work together as a team, and it work well. Yes, I am feeling a tad old this morning but I am certain that I can wrestle this feeling into one more suited for today’s needs. That’s just what I have in mind, and I am going to get an early start of it by making this a short post.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Hovering Near Balance

Perfecta 018

“All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.”   ~  J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan

It came to me this morning, early, as I sat out on the deck in the dark, that I haven’t heard coyotes in quite some time. I miss their song. Another thing that came to me, while reading some of my recent posts here, is that I have not been using a lot of contractions in my writing. The two issues are not connected in any way I can determine. It’s the contractions that mystify me. Does the lack of them indicate some arcane process in my mind? I will never know for sure. It’s kind of like when I somehow gave up on writing in cursive sometime during my senior year of high school. Why did that happen? What was I thinking? Moot points across the board this morning. I must be tired. The self-analysis alone could make one tired. Oh, I’ve been yawning as well. I went for a long time without yawning. I wonder if that builds up some kind of pressure? Have I been bored silly? Well, if I am going to be bored I hope for the kind of boredom that brings silliness. I like to be silly. I was bored during my senior year in high school; and depressed. Boy howdy when my name was announced for the National Honor Society my head was down in my forearms on the table top. Apparently I was not impressed. My academic career pretty much ended there. Go figure, right? I don’t honestly remember sitting up when my name was called.

The pretty doctor lady, my psychiatrist, mentioned the possibility of changing my meds. I told her no, I didn’t want to. My sense is that the severe down cycle I have been enduring for weeks now has been predominantly situational rather than physiological. I ran out of fight for a while, that’s all. All that was left was a few grumbles. No one is impressed with that. I would at this point remind myself that fighting is not always a negative thing. In example depression would be devastating  if one did not or could not fight it. And depression has one insidious quality in that it can pull a fast one and make you think you have lost your ability to fight, or that there is no reason to, or that resistance is futile (Michael Faraday might have taken issue with that last one). So my advice, mostly to myself, is to check first before giving in to resignation. Another thing is aggression. That ain’t always bad either. The blossoming of a flower is an aggressive action, as is the bursting out of a butterfly from a cocoon, or a bird from an egg. So aggression is sometimes appropriate. So now I am wondering why I am writing about aggression and fighting this morning. Does it have anything to do with the contractions? Maybe that is why I have been avoiding contractions. I have been feeling more expansive. When in a suppressive situation expansion must take any avenue available if it is to continue. Contraction has it’s own agenda, and it gets it’s turn as well. There is balance out there somewhere if you can find it. Oh my, here it is now. Please note that my regular readers here at the EyeYotee blog help me to hover near balance. That goes for all y’all secret readers as well. Especially y’all. Thank you.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Scars and Illusions

Bruiser 018

“If you are going through hell, keep going.”  ~  Winston Churchill

Today’s photo  .   .  .  well, I may have used it before. It’s Bruiser, a big ol’ tom who used to be a street fighter. You can tell by the scars on his head. Bruiser has gone to his forever home, but I have the great pleasure of knowing two more big toms who have apparently been through the street fighting thing as well – Chunk and Scraggly. It’s hard to tell why affection toward certain cats occurs but I believe that there is an energetic resonance. I love all of the cats but some of them have that certain je ne sais quois. An interesting thing about these three big toms is that they all have such sweet demeanors. It’s almost like they are grateful to be off of the streets. Who wouldn’t be. One thing that continues to mystify me is my love for the ferals, the ones that display hostility instead of sweetness. Their attitudes seem to indicate that they would kill you given the chance. Maybe it is just my love for life? Go figure. I admire these cats. That’s what I am saying.

An intense down cycle has me feeling a tad weepy, and shaky, but I know it to be an illusion so I’ll head into my day as if the illusion thing is just that: an illusion. It’s good to have that option. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like for depressives who are fully wrapped up in that illusion, those who have no discernible option. I’m sure that I have been there in the past, but I can think of only one time, over 25 years ago. I had a scare that night. It may not have been the night when I endeavored to learn how to find a way to manage the depression but it may have been. There’s no way of telling. Management, as I practice it, is in essence a constant flow of reminding myself that the illness is largely illusion-based, mentally speaking. The constant reminders become exhausting after a while. Pile that on top of the fact that the illness is not just mental, it has a strong physical component as well. You can bust down the inappropriate habitual thoughts but the physical down seems to be untouchable. How does it feel? It feels like gravity has a personal grudge against you, a grudge that is accompanied by some considerably unattributable aches and pains. And the mind races. Depression is a high-energy state. The only thing slow about is the way it makes time seem to creep by. But enough of that. if I keep on going here someone is likely to think I am making up excuses to garner some sympathy. That just ain’t so. I’m an advocate for public awareness toward busting down the stigma that mental illness bears. I ain’t the only one. But I have only, at most, about a dozen readers. Most of them here locally, but not all.

I wanted to write about honor and dignity this morning. Looks like I am not going to get to that. And respect. I also wanted to include respect in today’s post. Whiny me has been feeling disrespected lately; not overall, just in a few places in my life. Whatever. I’ve got an authentic smile in my pocket and I know how to use it, which I most certainly will do, and I will use it as it is supposed to be used, in a strictly spontaneous manner. That’s a promise. If I feel disrespected? Is it an illusion? One can never tell, but I don’t believe so, I think it’s real. I’ll stick with the smiles. Let the day begin. I’ve got a couple of tomcats needs pettin’.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

A Bustle In My Hedgerow

Scruffy 018

“I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.”  ~  Hermann Hesse

I’m running really late with the coffee this morning. Bad on me. It tastes so good. In fact it feels good as well. As well it should. Eyes puffy, sinuses moaning; it’s all allergies. Sometimes I sorely miss living at the edge of the Florida Straits where the air pumped in by the Southeast breeze seemed so crystal clear compared to this spare pollen-ridden stuff. But the islands go well in a daydream, so perhaps I will use that dream as a crutch today. I’m none too keen on reality this morning. I feel like rambling, and sleeping, then rambling again. It was somewhat of a ramble yesterday afternoon. Therapy session, brief stop by my doctor’s office to reconnect after a years’ absence. The last time I was there was to have my GP refer me to the neurologist, Dr. Wangs. Gotta love that name, right? It was about a petit mal seizure I had. That was a truly odd experience having that seizure. There was nothing dramatic about it, just a cloud of perplexity that  .  .  .  well, it was a bustle in my hedgerow. The darned neurological phenomenon was a shoutout to my intellect to QUIT WITH THE NEEDLESS HIGH LEVELS OF STRESS ALREADY. Like chill dude, k?

I’m kinda sorta near the high stress level again and I mean to nip it in the bud. My apologies for using an idiom there. It just kind of slipped out. At least it wasn’t an aphorism, right? Ya gotta draw the line somewhere. Anyway  .  .  .  oh yeah! The therapist and I got into a really cool Jungian rap yesterday. Give me an archetype any day, and I can weave it into a blanket of pure comfort. Now maybe I shouldn’t be going on about my mental issues, but what else have I got. A Jungian rap can bring the Big Picture back into view. There’s a lot to be said about that. Truth be told I haven’t seen the Big Picture for quite a while, not since I accepted the austerity measures into my life. This too shall pass. I had a bowl of budget-friendly canned clam chowder last evening. T’warn’t no chowder. I’ll tell you that right now. It was more of a beverage. And as a beverage it was really quite nice.

After all that Jungian stuff yesterday I’m pretty much going with the magic today. There are a couple of things in my life right now that need a strong injection of that magic. Things get too banal and boy howdy them stress levels go bugfuck, shooting up. That’s because we are magical beings and the denial of that creates stress. See? So I’ll be walking with my Spirit guides today, and if I need to like say stuff to peeps I will have a committee behind me of eminent stature. There is also love in the world. Smiles, y’all. The day begins.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

Mystery Furthers

Stella 018

“The hardest thing of all is to find a black cat in a dark room, especially if there is no cat.”   ~  Confucius

I’ll be looking for magic today. The real stuff, not sleight of hand. Neither one is hard to find. It was about 25 years ago that I came to the temporary conclusion that magic of the daily sort gets all bound up in creating the daily grind so many people must maintain. When creativity is maintenance there is still beauty within.

My life can be painfully simple at times. It doesn’t take much maintenance, and I often don’t even keep up with that requirement, but that is because I get such a kick out of seeing and feeling the magic that I forget to put it to practical use. My bad. I’m hooked on beauty, and a tad slack on completion. But it works. And then I have my quest to find whatever purpose that might be buried deep within the darkness that is depression.

The disorder itself can push things toward wastage, and that is one of the most exhausting things I know – fighting to remain strong against that force. It usually works. It can be done. I do it daily. Resignation happens rarely for me. And there is so much influence from society and culture that can etch darkly into plans and attempts at maintaining a positive attitude.

Perseverance furthers, right? Impeccability does as well. Not taking things personally? That too. Remembering to remain at the ready should a chance to shift a dream toward the Light comes along.

Is there an adversary afoot in the neighborhood, a nemesis? I can think of a couple right off the top of my head. But they are simply people doing what they do. Why we share the way we do, how we relate, how we employ our intersubjectivity  .  .  .  .   I don’t really know what I am on about here but it is deep within the field of dreams that is this Monday morning, and it means to express.

Should I carry love with me as I enter the day? Of friggin course. I’m not daft. It is always best to aim for healing, and then to cherish it when it arrives. That’s what I say. Midsummer has come. Fair Robin Goodfellow, that cheerful Trickster, has come to play. Maybe the Faerie Queen as well. Likely so. A sensuous movement, the broad stroke gesture of a smile, penetrating gaze, a sense of wonder. Yes. I’m going to like this day. Something wondrous is happening. Mystery furthers as well.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

The World Dances Around Me

Kittens in a Box 018

“Many people suffer from the fear of finding oneself alone, and so they don’t find themselves at all.”  ~  Rollo May; Man’s Search for Himself

Okay, okay, let’s get this done. No really, I feel justifiably lazy on this Sunday morning. And now that the friggin chickens just outside my window have quieted down I can write. The past two days at work have been rigorous. I’m tired. It’s been hot. Traffic’s been crazy. Why am I suddenly writing in a brisk Hemingway brevity mode? Maybe I’m channeling, and if that is the case I would much rather it be Neil Gaiman but he’s still alive so I’ll just have to do it myself. Ernest dude just chill dude so back off k? Woof. It’s hard being a writer. Friggin influences sometimes just don’t know when their job description has expired. You know, I need to remind myself that today is the Summer Solstice so the spirits of Ancestors are probably afoot in the land. My Grandmother Florence came to me this morning and my Grandmother Olive is with me a good part of the time as she is one of my Muses, and a fierce critic of grammar. Of course I call out to the love of my life, across through the Veil, hoping that she draws near because she once told me, quite adamantly, that I was seriously mistaken in saying that marijuana would eventually be legalized. Lori, sweetie, ever been to Colorado?

I did a lot of reading this morning. There were two pieces that really set in with me, one about head trauma and one about a rare neurological disorder. I love this stuff. I got into it in trying to understand things about myself and how I relate to the world, things that I needed medical professionals to diagnose, things that made me feel kinda sorta whacked at times. For any new readers I have the following (I am NOT whining here, k?): Bipolar 2 disorder, PTSD, unspecified brain damage, two petit mal seizures, and the partridge seems to have flown the coop thus leaving my pear tree sans bird. How’s that for obscure? But about the head trauma. I probably acquired that about 30 years ago. The two following years were dreamlike for me, though not nightmarish, and when friends and acquaintances asked how I was doing I told them that I had lost my anchor and asked if they had one handy I could borrow. Of course they would then edge away politely. The following five years I worked hard to figure out, through reading, what had happened, through a more intimate inquiry, and how I might rearrange my perception to better fit into a world that to me was rather crazy overall. Soooo  .  .  how’m I doin? As for the bipolar, I am successfully medicated, a condition I cherish because it works and I am grateful for that. And the brain damage? I reckon I am alright with that and I have a strong intuitive “dude pay attention!” hunch that it is responsible for the perception that the world, especially my movements, leaves subtle trails of the sort that might come to you if you had psilocybin mushrooms in your Sunday morning omelet. The world dances around me but I do not need Galileo to tell me that I am not the center of the rotations. I also have a small patch of chronic dyshydrotic eczema on my right foot. We learn to live with these things. They can make us a better person if we let them. I often see the bipolar thingy as a gift. I acquired this notion from conversations with my old friend, Lady Di (no, not that one), over chilled mugs of draft Budweiser with a healthy squeeze of fresh Key Lime in it. Diane believed that depressives actually see the world more clearly than almost all people. At times I agree with her. It happens often, but I believe that political correctness serves as a filter that kind of clouds perception so it’s hard to tell who has one up. I can tell you that since I smacked my head against the planet I’ve been hard-pressed to couch my expression in propriety.

The kittens above, in the opening photo, are most certainly precious, unless you have to get in to clean their cages, and then they become a pain in the ass. We’ve got lots of kittens at the shelter, folks. Come look. Now, I’m gonna get back to lazy.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.