Yowling Like a Tom

“Don’t confuse symmetry with balance.” ~ Tom Robbins

“The dogged determination and patience of one person to do what is Right and Necessary may not always win the day or even be noticed, but it will tip the balance just a little in the direction of good.” ~ Terry Pratchett

“Life rises out of death, death rises out of life; in being opposite they yearn to each other, they give birth to each other and are forever reborn. And with them, all is reborn, the flower of the apple tree, the light of the stars. In life is death. In death is rebirth. What then is life without death? Life unchanging, everlasting, eternal? What is it but death-death without rebirth?” ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

We came pretty close to storm proportions, back at 5 AM, when the cat woke me, yowling like a tom. Not just meowing, mind you, full gut-purging yowls; impressive yet unwelcome. I barked out a few “no”s before I finally snapped and let out a guttural reply of my own, in the form of a primal alpha growl. I got to bask in my presumed satisfaction for but a few seconds, before the cat was up on the bed and in my face. Ummmmm . . . okay, I’ll get up. So I did. By now, the second cup of coffee is about gone. The cat – after food, water, and litter scooping – is sacked out in her cat cave. Yes, that is a sigh of relief you just heard. I thought this point would never come: the chance to garner a bit of profound rest, or at least a few hours of unmoored, rudderless, serenity. I’m down to a mundane point right now, like, should I do my laundry today, or have it done for me. That’s about as much as I care to consider today. Likely I will have it done. It’s a minor extravagance yet not without its merits. That woman at the Wash o Mat . . . well, I’ve never seen underwear folded so impeccably. I personally don’t care if it is folded or not, I just appreciate excellence when I see it. The socks as well. It’s the darndest thing. Anyway . . . I’m fairly certain that I am already feeling the effects of the upped dosage of Prozac, after just two days. The doctor said I would know within a few days. He was right. Other than obeying the cat, I can just barely feel the sense of free-floating urgency I get in the mornings. We shall see. Speaking of Prozac, one of the most impactful writers on my list of favorites died just a few days ago, of metastatic breast cancer, at a fairly early age. Elizabeth Wertzel caused a literary ruckus back in the 90s, when she published a tell-all (Prozac Nation) about her struggles with clinical depression. It had almost a punk tone — good, compelling writing — and something I sorely needed to read, having been out of a full-blown depressive spell for a mere three years. Prozac helped me out of that one, back when it had only been on the market for a couple of years, and I was about fixin’ to yowl like a tomcat, my own self. Elizabeth’s prose was sometimes wrenching and jagged, so clear and brutally honest as it was. Was she brave? Yeh, maybe at first, but I think she really just dove into a form of the gonzo journalism perfected first by Hunter Thompson. As depression goes, it takes more than good writing and urbanity to be able to get across the monstrous reality of it all. Hemingway mighta said it was to “bleed onto the typewriter”. And I woulda said like, dude, what’s a typewriter? Ms. Wertzel was being the journalist she was. I am thankful for that. Now, going forward, I might just mosey on out to the car to have a broad look at the morning. There I go.

All is well. Goof gloriously.

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