That Good Old Precious Irony

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“Recounting the strange is like telling one’s dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one’s entire day.” ~  Neil Gaiman

“When it comes to controlling human beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts.” ~  Michael Ende, The Neverending Story

It’s one of those surreal mornings, dreamlike of course, and making me doubt that my brain has anything to do with anything. In today’s world other people’s brains will do all the work if you let them. Depressive talk sometimes holds many tiny kernels of truth, smothered between layers of cream and gelato, like a parfait, and of course the tiny truths get lost in the bold flavors that surround. There’s yer obscure image for ya right there. I’m not even sure what it means. Surreal, I tell you. To give y’all an idea of just how out there I am this morning, I was thinking of the old and crude adage about the shit hitting the fan. The problem with the adage is that there is so much flung and already flying these days that the fan is redundant, if not vestigial. The adage has been wounded, trumped by everyday occurrences. And texting is one of the villains. I’m just saying – people are getting hurt out there. Digital gossip, right? Twitter this, my friends. You will be glad you did.

Another thing about the deep blues this morning is that after a few weeks of medicating my diabetic cat I have noticed the first signs of my wishing it wasn’t needed. But it is. I looked at the cat a short while ago, she sitting at my feet, and me hunched like an old man. “You”, I told her, “Are the only reason I am still here”. No, this was not suicidal ideation. That pretty much requires anger and there ain’t none of that this morning. Not me, not here. But I wasn’t lying to her. Lying to a cat is a waste of time anyway. They read emotions, and intent. It is not that words are useless when communicating with cats, but I am not so sure that what you say has to actually make sense. They just need to see your jaw flapping.

Just came back in from the deck. High humidity, tepid air at 27º. Forecast is for a couple of days of snow afoot. I’d like that. The freshness, the whiteness, the softening of every sound. So, about the cat. She’s doing well. Lower insulin dosage seems to be just fine. I can’t see the blood sugar level, so there is always some worry. Lately I got some good buffering input to lessen the worries when they come. A friend of mine got wind of my cat’s illness and he called me right away. He’s a veterinarian, and yes he is the guy that got wrenched loose from the place I used to work and tossed aside on a rickety wagon of obloquy. Anyway, he gave me what amounts to a college level crash course in the modus operandi of diabetes in cats. He told me how the pancreas works, the kidneys as well. I was inculcated with the physiology of cats, which led into the history of the species, as desert animals. They are no different from big cats. Just smaller. Cats put up with us, but they are still wild. That last part is mine. It is one of the things that endears them crazy critters to me. All of the free education from the good doctor helps me immeasurably, especially considering that without the GoFundMe campaign my cat would very simply go without treatment. Even what has been donated so far is still not enough, although I am forever grateful for it all. But more is needed. So with the money and with the impressive knowledge and willingness to share from my doctor buddy I am able to give sweet baby kitty what she needs. I am a very lucky man, and for many reasons, not just about the cat. I am lucky to have that friggin annoying critter. The thing of it is, I am lucky to have the deep, silent running feelings. I’ve always had them, felt them, but my awareness of them increased from the head trauma those many years ago. Yet even after that they were still pretty inchoate. They were not honed nor readily accessible until I gained the good fortune of working with cats for over a year. Don’t get me wrong, I learned a lot from the people as well, even though some of it I wish I hadn’t. Just sayin’. I have numerous friends who also became family through the grit and stink of the nature of the job. But it was the cats. The cats taught me. I sit in awe of those beasts. Their capacity for emotion is beyond my ken, so to speak. And honesty, don’t forget honesty. It is quite often hard if not impossible to tell what a cat is thinking, but if you meet them on their level, instead of the cutesy sweetie pie level we use a bit too much, you can maybe find that sweet spot where the understanding doth not play well with thoughts and words. Let that sink in. I think that is what happened to the doctor. It wasn’t about words or thoughts, and most certainly not about understanding, it was about those deep silent running feelings. What those feelings were, their true nature, I have no idea, I can only guess. But I saw the results and I feel that what happened did not need to happen. It feels wrong. That’s the best I can do. Reminds me of that old Billy Crystal schtick from Saturday Night Live: “It’s not the way you feel, it’s the way you look!”. Oh, precious irony, thou dost raise my spirits. Thank you.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

 

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