The human's back
With a pack
Of strangers in tow
Large house is small
People clutter the hall
I want them to go
Doors keep closing
I'm just supposing
To keep us in or out
But we are too keen
To be seen or unseen
When we want to prowl about
This year is ending
Soon will be sending
The strangers away
I only wish
(Along with fish)
The human would stay
I'll be abandoned to an aunt again for a time period I have been unable to clarify, but I hope to post occasionally. Please be patient if I don't post much for the next half month.
Mensa Invitational
As do so many these days, I receive my fair share of forwarded jokes and other materials endlessly circulating the Internet. Since my last reposting was well-received, I would like to share another that has tickled me today:
The Washington Post's Mensa Invitational once again asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are this year's winners. Read them carefully. Each is an artificial word with only one letter altered to form a real word. Some are terrifically innovative:
1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.
2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
4. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
5. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
6. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
7. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
8. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
9 Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
10 Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
11. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
12. Glibido: All talk and no action.
13. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
14. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
15. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
16. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the lot:
17. Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an ass.
These days are so cold
This is getting old
My human is always ready to flee
Instead of staying home to warm me
The bedding’s been washed clean
Of my smell; why are you so mean?
Tookie’s been taken
To the place where they’re bakin’
But instead of being fried
They put a needle in his hide
Now he’s at peace
Let the protesting cease
Survivors and advocates alike
All of you just take a hike
There’s never one right answer anymore
There’s just another person to make sore
Everybody just needs to chill
Find somewhere else to turn your will
There’s plenty enough killing and dying at home and abroad
To give folks reason to push each other and prod
Facts don’t seem to matter to those who won’t hear
Past or future, it’s all too near
Just hold onto your pants
And give peace a chance
Abandonment:
It’s all about being left alone. Sure, there are promises made by the light of day, promises of imminent return, but where is the trust? Where is the fulfillment of all these promises? Where is the human?
Day after day we are bade adieu with the promise of return. Night after night we watch the sun set, twilight flee, and darkness fall. Then, long after light and heat have left for the day, the lock rattles. JJ still runs; not I. I have no tolerance for such infidelity. Safe and snug in this giant bed, I remain warm and undisturbed, except for the futile search for my head or tail. I do not accept these professions of regret, these excuses for tardiness.
True, there was a time when I was enticed out of my warm bed by the rattle of paper and the fascinating foreign scents that accompanied my human’s returns, but no more. Things come in, things go out, but I remain. The view has changed; bleakness is pervading the landscape. Leaves are falling, birds have flown, trucks are heard but no longer seen. The only positive change is that delivery men seem more prevalent of late, and their mysterious bundles come in a variety of sizes. I particularly enjoy the clumsy one that often fumbles, trips, and swears.
Ah, I feel a lightening of my gloom. Perhaps things are not so bad. After all, my human does come home each night, if late. It is not as bad as the year I was left alone. OK: perhaps not total abandonment after all… I do like my food and toys, after all…
Deep Thoughts For Those Who Take Life Too Seriously
1. Save the whales. Collect the whole set.
2. A day without sunshine is like..........night.
3. On the other hand, you have different fingers.
4. 42.7 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.
5. 99 percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name.
6. Remember, half the people you know are below average.
7. He who laughs last thinks slowest.
8. Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm.
9. The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese in the trap.
10. Support bacteria. They're the only culture some people have.
11. A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.
12. Change is inevitable, except from vending machines.
13. If you think nobody cares, try missing a couple of payments.
14. How many of you believe in psycho-kinesis? Raise my hand.
15. OK, so what's the speed of dark?
16. When everything is coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.
17. Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now.
18. Every one has a photographic memory. Some just don't have film.
19. How much deeper would the ocean be without sponges?
20. Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines.
21. What happens if you get scared half to death twice?
22. "I couldn't repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder."
23. Why do psychics have to ask you for your name?
24. Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.
25. Just remember - if the world didn't suck, we would all fall off.
26. Light travels faster than sound. That is why some people appear bright......... until you hear them speak.
27. Life isn't like a box of chocolates.... it's more like a jar of jalapenos. What you do today, might burn your butt tomorrow.
Hot and cold blow the winds from door and vent
I cannot resolve this rising discontent
My heart beats fast my vision blurs
Between my ears a dim memory stirs
What was it that mouse long ago said
That I should remember long after it was dead?
Something about time and turns and such
More than that I cannot remember much
Though I have not eaten more than I should
My stomach does not feel so very good
Hairball attacks that toss me and turn me
Test my will but I won’t let them see
Any sign of weakness means I’m not a good boy
And I won’t let JJ rise above being a mere toy
Sure I can be petty but I’m above that
Do you think it could’ve been that half-eaten rat?
I cannot I will not I must not give in
I am as tough as I’ve ever been . . .
Outside it’s cold but here in your arms
I lay my head on your chest that warms
Here’s where first I curled right up
Against your coat as cozy as a cup
And still you let me stay with you
Lest from this cold I should turn blue
There is no warmer safer place
Then with my ears tucked beneath your face
Dibs
I’ve got dibs.
My human roams
But I’ve got dibs.
My human moans
But I’ve got dibs.
The kitty eater was on the loose today
And consolation seemed far away
But I’ve got dibs.
My human tried to slip out
What’s that about?
I’ve got dibs.
Sit down
Don’t frown
I’ve got dibs.
See all the leaves lying around, and the sky is grey
The wind blows hard, clearing the cobwebs away
This is the time of year when thoughts crystalize
And fancy holds sway as the daylight dies
My potential is vast
But that's all in the past
JJ's the one who's bounding around
While I continue to emulate a mound
It's time I got up and off of the bed
Got myself to the kitchen and got fed
Today I'm bouncing and chasing and fresh
For my mind is clear of its cobwebby mesh
Distracted
My human, though returned from place(s) unknown, is clearly distracted. Meals come later than of old, litter ripens, and my blog is neglected. Only the loving remains. Still, as long as that remains, what else of life need I? Though the winds pick up and the skies are cast down, my human’s loving keeps me warm.
Okay, enough of that: why is my food dish still empty and my water all over the floor?
Home
My parental unit’s home:
I wish I could roam . . .
But I just dig in loam
Then wait for a finger comb
Or sniff that hairy dome
Fresh with shampooed foam
Aunty L was very nice:
She liked to toss me fresh new mice
And help JJ to scratch his lice
Even when she was eating rice
Or fixing up meat with a special spice
While the P.U. was playing with dice
Now that the P.U.’s back to stay
We can stay up all night and play
Or until the P.U. says nay
To the ruckus that arises when we make hay
After having slept contentedly all day
And ridden shoulders though they sway
Time to go to sleep I see
Just the P.U. and JJ and me
To those of you checking in on how I’m doing, know that JJ and I have been abandoned by our human for the next several days but will be lovingly cared for by Aunty L. Hope to blog to you again soon. GM-FE
I needed to be kneaded
And you kneaded me
You need to be needed
And I do need you
Let JJ have his day
But the nights belong to you and me
I lay in your arms purring
Boom
I’d stay in your arms all night
Boom
But the ground rises up and my paws stretch out
Boom
I’m off to do some serenading
Wet Nose
Wet nose from wet clothes
Where will I sleep tonight?
Wet toes fled wet hose
Where will you keep me tonight?
Sweet sleep long and deep
I want to sleep with you tonight.
Things that make me itch
Also make my nose twitch
When my nose is wet
Well, that's worse yet
Leave me in the dark
And I'll leave you my mark
So what'll it be?
Keep me company or set me free
Dust mites
Make me sneeze
So open the screen
Please
For if I scratch
But no one opens the latch
I'll just have to sit in the halls
And lick my balls
Everyone Needs To Be Kneaded
This has been a blissful weekend. JJ and I have enjoyed our occasional excursions into the dark, web-filled garage with its musty odors and plethora of insect eggs. Then, when we have been chased back indoors, we have each of us been treated in turn to the bliss of being kneaded. . . . and then, like a well-wrought dough, allowed to rest until it is time to be kneaded again. Ah, the ecstasy!
(Just thought I’d share; you can keep your cozy firelit logs that let off black smoke.) ;->
The Laundry Room
The laundry room is my new lair
For my favorite blanket is now there
A single leap, and then a bound
That’s where unbroken sleep can be found
JJ’s too little to find his way
So I sleep in peace all day
But last night he finally found me out,
Bided his time after following me about
And when I slipped down for a bite to eat
Up he popped and stole my new retreat
No worries, though, for I simply returned
To where the home fires always burn
I nestled down into my favorite spot
And spent the night cozily hot
This morning my human slipped out for a ride
So I spent the time singing to the wall on my side
The weather’s cooled and the rain has fallen
My energy’s up; I hear the Outdoors callin’
Somewhere out there beyond the door
Life awaits, and so much more!
CPR = Cat Paw Rubbings
It’s the most important maneuver a feline can perform, essential for daily well-being and proper maintenance of designated humans.
The purpose of a comma is to indicate a pause, and the purpose of paws is to bind together independent claws.
Lonesome
So many days
Locked in this house
No one to bother
Except my toy mouse
JJ just sleeps
In the sun all day
When night falls
He’s the one gets to play
That Aunty Carol
Thinks he’s so great
But she’s the reason
They’re always out so late
She tried to catch me
To give me “a ride”
But I’m too quick for her
I just zip and hide
She smells of perfumes
And garlic to boot
She’s a pretty lady
But I don’t give a hoot
This house is mine
And I’ll do as I please
So keep your perfume
And don’t make me sneeze
I want my human
Around on demand
Life should be
By my command
These sunny days
Are for lazing about
All too soon
It’ll be too cold to go out
So let me be
Don’t set me free
Can’t you see
My life suits me to a “T”
I've finally set up a separate page for my erstwhile human. I'm tired of being maligned, of being credited with rash, brash, partisan statements on subjects about which no self-respecting feline would have an opinion. What has politics to do with where my next meal is or when it will be served? What do I care about socio-political issues or the welfare of this or any nation's economy? It's time I took back my own page, and that is what I'm doing. Now I'm going back to sleep.
This aerobed sure is comfy, if somewhat lower than the bed to which I have become accustomed. Still, this is where my bedding is, so this is where I'll sleep. Aunty Carol will just have to fit herself in when she gets back.
What a Week
JJ and I have been locked up home alone a lot this week. We wonder what we’ve done to deserve such abandoning, but let me start at the beginning:
Tuesday morning started out like so many others. Our human left the house while it was still dark out, but we have learned not to worry, as our P.U. (parental unit) usually returns within a couple of hours; that was not the case on Tuesday. That day P.U. did not return until it was once again dark. By that time, even I had begun to worry. You may rest assured that I sniffed all garments and bags thoroughly that night, and this is what I have deduced —
Tuesday morning P.U. went down to the Bay. There remains a distinct tang of salt water spray that tells me so. I know it was an overcast day, but the wind must have been whipping up small swells during the crossing. There were flocks of birds skimming the water, occasionally dipping and diving for their breakfast. These were not the same kinds of birds that fly over my courtyard and occasionally mock us, though. These were larger, wilder birds. Perhaps it is better that we were not there to see them…
P.U. spent time tramping around downtown San Francisco, stopping occasionally to munch and watch as other people intent on their various pursuits hustled by. There were planes overhead, trains both above and below ground, trolleys and trams, and automobiles of all kinds. Their collective stench remains entrapped in P.U.’s cuffs. Odors suggest that P.U. may have ridden on several different vehicles during the course of the day while traipsing about the City.
Then there were the girls. I distinctly smelled girls; JJ concurs. P.U. was with female felines! Worse, there were female feline hairs on P.U.’s clothes and backpack. I fear the infidelity, for I have smelled these particular felines before.
There were dogs of various sizes as well. P.U. seems to have been getting around quite a bit without us. I can understand leaving JJ behind, but I clearly enjoyed the ride I went on last week, so why was I not invited along this time?
And there was food… many different kinds of food… from three different parts of the City… I miss the Fog City!
Back here in our new enclave I sat and sweated, trapped within the confines of our admittedly larger, longer, more luxurious new abode. It’s hot here, a good 5 degrees warmer than in our old apartment, 10 when the doors and windows are locked shut. Things actually got quite desperate before P.U. returned, as JJ responded to the stress by gobbling all the food, then regurgitating it. Ditto on the water.
When P.U. finally returned, our human was too exhausted to do more than kiss each of us impartially before crashing.
Wednesday was spent in recovery, but Thursday seemed like more of the same. Our human left us while it was still dark out, stayed out til midday, returned just long enough to stink up the house with the usual smells of lunch, then disappeared again, not returning until nearly dark. Where is our human going? What is going on? This had better not keep happening, or I will . . . I will . . . I will . . . what?
What’s this about Aunty Carol coming again? I may not be blogging for awhile…
Twilight
This morning my claws were clipped
As the Hunter’s Moon dipped
Below the western horizon
So the nation’s fangs
Need to cease their bangs
Before the event horizon
Am I too obscure
In my recommended cure
For what ails our society?
I simply yearn for a piece of peace
Surcease from war within my life’s lease
A rest from excess piety
A modicum of old-fashioned propriety
A chance to live
A chance to give
A time to dance
With my human perchance
Without fear
Of what we’ll hear
Or see too late in the skies
As that final bomb flies
Or worse yet
I’d rather not bet
On the wisdom of warriors and wannabes
Who dare to claim
Things in my name
But only act for themselves to please
Oh just let me purr
While my human strokes my fur
And afternoon sunlight through a grey cloud slants
Pawdicure
It’s past time for my pawdicure
So my claws can be clean and pure
The moon has filled and is passing now
The furniture is shredded (don’t ask me how)
I’m just a simple fellow you see
Wanting my paws to be germ-free
My human complains of pokes and scratches
But it’s not my fault when an errant claw catches
I try to file my claws down each week
And wipe my nose regularly so as not to streak
But the weather is changing and I’m just a cat
So my nose runs and I’m storing winter fat
My claws continue to grow as they will
And keeping them honed is a challenging skill
I don’t want to hurt anyone that I love
But everything around here is up above
So I must leap in order to reach
And claw what I can though I’m not a leech
Odd that my claws make me sound like a politician
For my heart is gold and I don’t just hang about the kitchen
And now . . . it’s time for a deep
. . . s-l-e-e-p - - -
Misplaced Women in Positions of Power
Twas an inept woman looking for a lost nut
That cut JJ open across his gut
Now another misguided woman wants a seat
So she can force life as though it’s a treat
Claims murder is wrong but hard knocks are okay
A forced life of injustice is the natural way
There’s only one way to see the truth
And that’s her way, forsooth
Will the taking of life for justice’s sake
Still be murder or just icing on the cake
Of the legal system’s inherent biases
Against race and class, like eczema and psoriasis?
(Sometimes reaching for a rhyme
Should take a little more time…)
Walking is wonderful exercise, so I’ve been told
Though on the truth of that I’m not entirely sold
My paws are so tender as you surely must know
For I’ve only the carpet across which to go
Oh, sometimes I get to stroll through some grass
Or settle down in the dirt under the fern pass
But even when I pass from carpet to concrete
I carefully avoid the straw mat with my feet
For it has proved pokey, as can clearly be seen,
Put there by someone unutterably mean
No problem, though, for I simply sidestep it
Though there JJ’s been known of occasion to sit
Today we raced round the house, JJ and I
Hot in pursuit of an encroaching fly
I leapt in the air with grace and ease
Then landed gently, if you please
But my paws are so tender from lifelong disuse
That simple walking is surely abuse
Pumpkins stretch across the land
From mountain across field to ocean’s sand
People pour in from every place
Dressed all in orange though of every race
The air is redolent of freshly grilled meats
While passersby flaunt all kinds of sweets
Corn on the cob grilled up its husk
Sweetens the air from dawn until dusk
Sweet cider is just one kind of brew
That foams over glass with this boisterous crew
Children learn so many things this way
From carving and drawing to gluttony’s sway
Lanterns give way to pie eating contests
As the littlest among us snuggle down in mobile nests
Horses walk past us on the slow crawl home
While ocean swallows sun under God-painted dome
The Harvest Moon’s full on this clear warm night
As we trundle on home without any more fight
It’s always quite a time at the festival each year
From the arts and crafts to the food and the beer
Lost in a bottomless chasm of avoidance
Dancing and twirling amidst empty dreams
I sleep the slumber of the sated
And chase endless fields of mice, so it seems
JJ is willing, a perfect companion
To wrestle or play as occasion demands
Except when his feather or ribbon emerges
Summoning him in human hands
Games that are real are for watching, not playing
Sitting on sidelines one learns so much more
Than making a fool of oneself in public places
And revealing what’s hidden at one’s very core
A fickle eater am I, you see
For so many foods just don’t suit me
Milk and cheese and beef and pork
Should stay safely behind a cork
Even chicken that’s been laced with herbs
Is strictly for felines who live in the burbs
Give me a clean bird boiled, roasted, or steamed,
That has had its innards completely reamed
Or what’s really nice are a dozen succulent shrimp
Shelled and deveined, but be sure not to scrimp
Chicken and shrimp are the only safe fare
For this feline’s tender tummy to bear.
Now JJ is not such a fussy boy
He’s a feline disposal and our human’s toy
If it’s mooed or oinked or bleated or grunted
Then it’s meat that is sure not to be shunted
I’ve even seen him eat yogurt and cheese
If it’s any kind of dairy it’s sure to please
And even if it’s just leftover suet
You just know he’ll be willing to get right to it
The only things I’ve seen him pass up
Are vegetables and fruits, on those he’ll not sup
Lately he’s even considered avocado
Even he’s not that foolish though
Things that are red, yellow, orange, or green
Are not meant to be eaten but just to be seen.
Then there’s our human who’s portion control
Was briefly tight, but whose appetite is now on a roll
Regardless of color it all seems to be good
Progress has halted; we’re back where we once stood
Reason and logic have fled in the night
As work brings hunger into the light
How can one subsist on the portions ordained
How can an appetite be reined
When the stomach gnaws and growls with frequency and ease
And only larger portions will that nagging appease
The more things change, the more they remain the same: trite but evidently still true.
What are the most maligned and undervalued aspects of education? At a guess I would have to say fine arts and vocational training. They receive the least respect, the fewest accolades, and the quickest funding cuts, despite persistent evidence supporting their fundamental value to all other aspects of education.
Now we are riding yet another wave of technological innovation with a purely computer-oriented generation of children surging forward, as each wave is wont to do. Joining them are the third and fourth waves of the general populace who have not been on the cutting edge of the technological and information revolution/evolution. Now what software applications are most accessible to these people? What value do they see in these formerly formidable tools? Are not the music, graphics, and e-mail programs the most used? Are not the current entry level computers billed as media center computers? Are not the most popular selling books those that guide people in “how to” do things and deal with “issues”?
Academics have long been geared to train leaders, dreamers, and manipulators of society through its political, economic, and military arms. If, however, schools are to target the masses, and the masses have clearly indicated their desire for improved communication and expression through pictures and sounds, even more than through words, should not schools respond to such desires and needs? And as has been true throughout societal existence, the use of machines requires building and maintaining; ergo, training for such tasks.
How practical should schools be? Should all schools be all things to all people? Is that even possible? Is it practical for one government to determine one policy for all situations? Are we a G.I. (general issue) society wherein one size really can fit all?
There was a time when some schools were specifically geared to prepare leaders of government, others to prepare leaders of industry, still others to prepare coworkers in various fields. Those who have desired to seek their own paths have been free to do so after a minimum of core skill training common to all. Now there seems to be an increasing movement to homogenize the learning experience. Against this is the ongoing desire by some parents not to allow their offspring to be less than superior, a much harder goal when swimming upstream against the great leveling that is the contemporary interpretation of universal equality. This is, of course, juxtaposed against the bleaker view of some parents (shared by too many students) that there is no opportunity within the current educational and societal systems for upward mobility or even for basic euphemistic water treading.
It’s well past time to sing another tune, to paint a different picture, to sculpt new models for changing times, to finally give credit and honor where it is due to the current generation of achievers, not just to decaying older systems. It is time to do away with decayed inherited honors, time to see and to acknowledge, and to pay proper respect to those forging new paths and smoothing those ways for those who must follow… if they can.
Marketing Freebies
In the United States culture and fashion have long been shaped by economic impulses and ventures. Post-WWII America watched three network television channels, broadcast free over the air to pricey television sets of assorted sizes. Families aspired to the ownership of television consoles, first in black and white, then to those that were able to receive and decipher color images. Such a significant investment of economic resources and living space necessitated adequate usage to justify the expense. Persistent viewing, in turn, provided a ready and willing audience for marketing gambits. New products were introduced and demonstrated to a receptive audience. For those not so eager to make further investments in previously unneeded goods, incentives were offered. There were stamps to be collected that could, in turn, be converted into the acquisition of otherwise indulgent purchases such as willow-patterned plates, gold-rimmed plates, corningware, silverware, more cups than could be accommodated by cupboards that had once seemed overwhelmingly generous, figurines, sporting goods, clock radios, kitchen appliances, luggage for trips previously uncontemplated, and even toys with which to gain the favor of envious offspring. The first homogenized American generation grew up with a common language, furnishings, and entertainment memories sprinkled with catchy commercial tunes and characters. Madison Avenue marketing executives were ecstatic at the overwhelming success of television and radio marketing.
The next generation of Americans was of necessity more savvy to mass media marketing than their predecessors had been. These were consumers who had been inundated by marketing techniques from the womb, and they were not as susceptible to “cute and catchy” for as long as their parents had been. Of course, they were being brought up by the parents who had watched those early ads, and who were now very much engaged with the pursuit of more money that would allow them to continue their youthful consumer pursuits, as well as being able to provide such luxuries for their children, whom they were determined would not suffer the indignation of having identical housewares and other belongings as their stamp-collecting neighbors, classmates, and friends. This business-oriented work ethic didn’t leave much time for the domestic engineering so ingrained in previous generations. The lack left a new marketing opening for Madison Avenue, and the fast food industry took over where the textile industries had led. After all, everyone must eat, mustn’t they? Enter the overweight American.
Obesity has been heralded as the latest epidemic to plague Americans, and the fast food industry has taken the brunt of the blame for its widespread nature. Necessity, it seems, exonerates or at least excuses the marketing industry for its role in the popularizing of fast food consumption. Blame must be assigned, but not to the consumer and certainly not to the marketer. After all, marketers are merely the messengers, and the messenger should not be killed for the message, right?
Now the innocent messenger brings word that there are yet other targets at which to throw money: the health and fitness industries. As times have changed, so have the media by which the word comes: the World Wide Web and the music industry have joined the television, radio, and entertainment industries in spreading the good word that there are things to buy and homogenizing freebies to be had with them. The more things change, the more familiar they look: Today’s families continue to aspire to higher quality images broadcast to larger screens with superior audio capabilities and an ever-increasing number of components. The next generation is more tech savvy than the previous, which simply means that it is more susceptible to newer, more invasive and pervasive avenues of persuasion that promise freedom in exchange for enslavement to the new tools/toys that in turn continue to meld societies into the global village that may or may not be such a good idea after all . . .
October 5, 2005
Music to Ignore and Other Buffers in Life
revised October 5, 2005
I’ve long thought that I like to listen to music as much as the next person, though I rarely know the names of the songs I’ve heard, whether over the radio, on television, or in films I’ve seen. What I’m noticing anew, however, is that once the music starts, my mind wanders off down whatever path invites at the moment. By the time the music stops, my thoughts have covered much ground and it is only with great effort that I can recall all the byways down which my mind has meandered. What I do know for a certainty is that I cannot tell you what music has been dinning my ears, for I have been otherwhere. Music, then, is for me merely a buffer from the world, more a threshold across which lie the paths of mental exploration that I crave than a pleasure in and of itself. True, sometimes socially relevant lyrics impinge themselves on my consciousness, but such words merely lead to other thoughts unrelated to the rhythms and tunes that filter through my subconscious.
This realization has led me to consider other potential buffers in my life. What I must conclude is that I have so many that I find I live in almost total isolation, apart from instead of a part of humanity in any truly interactive sense, despite my roles as teacher, lover, friend, and associate to the many whose shadows cross mine in life. My students are my excuse at home, my home life my excuse at work. My position of authority precludes intimacy with those of my students with whom I spend the bulk of my time outside of home. Claims of duty to my work, on the other hand, allow me to shirk responsibility and, too often, even intimacy at home. My nominal religious affiliation protects me from the antagonisms of agnostics and atheists while my cynicism distances me from the devoutly religious. My concerns for the plights of the underprivileged in society are my bulwark against alignment with the uncaring, but my claims of neutrality and impotence serve as my shield against those who agitate for and enact political activism.
With whom or what, then, do I connect and interact? What is my role in life, my purpose on this plane of existence? Or is the question of why I feel the need for so much shielding and insulation a more appropriate question? Of what am I afraid?
Paul Simon wrote a song in the late sixties or early seventies that I took for my youthful anthem, not realizing the telling irony of the lyrics until much later in life, long after I’d been flashing the world with glimpses of my sorry soul without even realizing it. “I am a Rock,” Simon wrote. “I am an island, and a rock never cries and an island never feels.” I liked that thought, for puberty and even my nominally post-pubescent years were intensely painful. I had led a charmed childhood, sheltered from all the slings and arrows of adversity by dutiful parents who only knew how to demonstrate love through discipline and providing, who dealt with their own fears by insulating my life against danger and teaching me to isolate myself for safety as well. So I’m safe, but I know fear far too well; it is such a constant companion that I even fear its absence. What would I do without fear against which to insulate myself?
Ironically, this is the very conservative-minded mentality against which I rage in my classes and my diatribes. I know consciously, intellectually, how fatal such a siege mentality is, that it lay at the heart of what has long been stigmatized as the Dark Ages, and I firmly believe that it lies at the base of the current economic and energy crises gripping our country today. Knowing doesn’t change a lifetime of ingrained attitudes and fears, however; for I know in my gut that if I let go of these fears, I’ll have to face other dilemmas for which I lack solutions because I lack experience.
Some of our world’s business and government leaders know this truth as well, though that knowledge is not reflected in their actions. Is the unknown so much more intimidating than the comfortably known fears of childhood that we as a society dare not move forward in response to the world our ingenuity and aggression has shaped? Such seems to be the unfortunate case. Will we, like the generation before us, have the courage to open new avenues and possibilities for the coming generations, or will we be ruled by the fears of the unknown that increasingly dominate with age, cutting off hope for those who follow in a desperate attempt to extend our own comfort for the meager time we have left to our own existence?
Halloween Is Coming
This last day of September is a bright, beautifully lit day, one last glow before this area succumbs to the expected series of wintry blows that annually sweep out the year’s detritus. Lawnmowers, hedge trimmers, and leaf blowers swing through parks and lawns, perhaps for the last time this year, perhaps not.
Tomorrow begins October. Already stores have their Halloween goods on display: eerie cackles over pointy hats, whispy brooms, seething cauldrons, silken webs, all artistically draped over mounds of pounds of candy. For the for the sheltered and the naïve, it is still a time for innocent fun.
Conservative schools and parents, however, are prepare for what has become an annual war of words and policies over whether or not what was once an important Christian holiday has become an annual Satanic celebration. In fairness, how many people actually remember or think about the fact that Halloween started out as the Eve of All Saints Day, a time for reflection and contrition? Somehow it has gone from being a time of chasing out old demons and letting go of sinful ways to being a celebration of indulgence and demonizing. Each year the news is filled with tales of drink-fueled sprees of vandalism and violence. The entertainment industry contributes its bit to the shaping of contemporary culture by releasing a slew of horror-based films and songs of violence to match the sentiment of the season.
Like Christmas Eve, Halloween has been co-opted for commercial purposes. As the pre-Christmas season is the time of year when merchants expect to make the bulk of their profits, so the pre-Halloween season has become the greatest time of marketing and sales for the candy, sugar products, and costume industries.
Christian holidays have become touchstones for big business in the U.S. Perhaps that is why our money still says, “In God We Trust”; not a statement of religious faith, as the civil liberties advocates claim, but rather as an affirmation of commercial philosophy, as marketers practice it. Soon enough the bright glow of summer will be replaced by the bright glow of coins flowing into tills across the land.
9/30/05
Communication Gap: Noncultural
We are both speaking English, but we don’t seem to be speaking the same language, for communication clearly is not occurring. We have both been born and reared in the same country, though that, too, is not self-evident, at least not to one of us. In fact, from what she is saying, I would guess that we shared very similar childhoods and experiences, though that is nearly impossible to tell now. Somehow she has been frozen in time, trapped in an American experience that may never have truly existed, that certainly no longer represents any great universal, though she claims it as an unarguable, unchanged, perpetual truth. How did our once shared experiences become so different? Where did the paths diverge and why? I call her a fool as I turn and walk away, asserting that it’s okay because, after all, it’s a free country where people are allowed to be fools . . . but perhaps it is I who am the fool to expect that the Great Truth of my personal experiences must necessarily be universal truth for all people.
9/30/05
Fiery streams flow like lava
Down Southern California slopes
Washing before them complex webs
Of wishes, dreams, and hopes
The U.S. nightly news swings
From flood to fire with ease
Like Jackson’s Tolkienesque images
Of undammed floods and burning trees
Whether in peace or in war
The cameras roll
Eager to catch the next great image
Of a troubled soul
It’s all about pictures and soundbites today
Reduction of thought
Amidst overblown stories and oversized people
Societal solace is sought
The sun is shining
The car is calling
Auto hygiene is a must
Feather's flying
Ribbon's teasing
Must catch JJ or bust
Rain's done falling
Floods receding
Government promises: who to trust?
Indian summer
So they call it
Sunny days before the frost
Race in language
Thought control
Freedom's hazy promise tossed?
Life seems good
Gas seems safe
Indian summer's hazy promise?
Realists know
Winter's coming
Time for dreams to lie at rest
Professor Batty never fails to stimulate thought. I like the idea of reciprocal affection and the consequences of its lack. When my human and I don't have our daily lovefests, life just isn't the same. When my human doesn't pay attention during those lovefests, payment must be exacted. After all, a feline is not for taking for granted. Love and affection go much more easily than they come, as they should, and once gone, neither readily returns, if ever. It's a good thing, then, that I'm a loving fellow...
Return of the Carpetbaggers
Roughly one hundred forty years ago Northerners descended upon the war-ravaged South to help “reconstruct” it; now several Southern states are once again ravaged, this time by a combination of acts of nature and the negligence of humans. This time, however, a Southerner is authorizing the invasion of reconstructionists, proffering the sugar cube of federal funding for the right to rebuild the impoverished districts that have been devastated by storm, flood, and promised pestilence. Help is clearly needed and might be appreciated, if it actually comes without the inevitable strings attached.
Consider: Inner city revitalization projects have all too often meant the suburbanization of urban areas, the yuppy-izing of formerly low income dwellings and businesses, which, in turn, have resulted in the displacement of those who had nowhere else to go in the first place. Sure, it all looks pretty and clean folks no longer fear to visit, but where are the unwashed to go? Not to affordable housing: they bring property values down! Not to where the money has effected positive change: such areas are now desirable to and coveted by those who already have power and influence.
This time the 21st century carpetbaggers come bearing gaming consoles and hi-tech tools with their economic clout, but the net benefit for those who most need help will all too likely be the same as it was the last time our country was so thoroughly polarized. The rich will get richer, those with potential will migrate away, and those left behind will go on, scotch tape and stapler in hand, piecing their lives together as well as they can with what they can forage, bearing pity and scorn but little else.
Okay, yes, that does sound extremely cynical, but who do you know in great need that is proactive without model or education? Such folk are very few, and they do not long stay needy. Are we yet a culling society? Is that the last vestige of our agricultural roots that our society wishes to retain? Do we really believe that unless we keep our killer instincts, we will go the way of the Roman Empire? It wasn’t just their teeth they surrendered to the cavity that hollowed out their society long before the walls finally fell and the seven hills were filled with the rubble and debris of empire…
George W. Bush, the U.S. president who declared that this country will stay in Iraq for as long as it takes, for as much as it costs, has declared the same about his proposed federal support for the rebuilding of New Orleans and those parts of Mississippi that have been ravaged by Hurricane Katrina and the levy breaks that followed in its aftermath. He sounded positively New Dealish in his acknowledgement of domestic social problems such as generations’ old racism and economic disparity. If his promises of commitment to the people of these United States prove to be at least as firm as his promises to the people and ruling government of Iraq, he may yet redeem himself in the eyes of many Americans, though it may sadly come at the cost of some of his current supporters. Irony: you gotta love it.
9-16-05
Prohibition Returns
According to Darya Folsom on this morning’s KRON TV News (9-16-05), two years ago California became the first state in the union to ban soda and junk foods from elementary and middle school campuses. Beginning next year, it will extend the ban to all public high schools.
Slowly but surely, California is outlawing previously legal lethal life choices and habits. People are being denied choices at each end of life, from anti-abortion to anti-euthanasia, and now being cut off from those lovely little vices that make the living between endpoints enjoyable: smoking, overeating, overindulging, even merely indulging. California, once the proud leader in freedom of expression and free will, is slowly but steadily heading toward becoming the foremost non-religious puritanical state of the union.
And where California, home to Hollywood, leads, can the nation and the world be far behind? (I feel a dystopian tale welling up . . .)
Blogger for Word: I’ve been wanting to download and try this feature ever since I first saw it posted, but I’ve been mired on a borrowed Mac all summer. Now that I’ve finally figured out what I should have known about my router, I’m back on my own home ground. My human just isn’t the swiftest, sometimes…
I’ve been sleeping the day away…
Must have caught JJ’s cold…
Haven’t got much else to say
Except that I’m not feeling too bold
I wish just a little longer I could stay
But my human has laundry to fold
I love fresh laundry as you must know
Because long ago I told you so
So off I go to snuggle down
Hang loose, and I’ll see you around
I blah blah blah
On my blog blog blog
Searching for something to say
My mind min mi
Is in that foggy place
Where it always likes to stay
The news washes over me
Leaving me feeling unclean
As the waters of Katrina
Have flushed out those who are mean
I'm not talking
About the raging, looting, and killing
But about the rapacious media
And their tripe that we're swilling
They circle like vultures
Excited for fresh meat
Reporting the new carpetbaggers
As they salivate over ratings sweet
Who stands to profit
From disaster's wake
Who thinks they really have
The most at stake
Is it the poor, the oppressed, the homeless
Or is it the media and the politician
Jostling for position
What more can they possibly say
At the end of the day
To make me not want to surf away
Always doing what one can is not always the best decision. Just because JJ can eat all the wet food set out in the morning doesn't mean he can keep it down. When he fails to do so, we are left not only with an empty food dish, but with more of a maze through which to pick our way during the course of the day. This would not be so bad if he could just keep his paws out of the marshes and bogs he creates...
Likewise my human has been told that there is such a thing as "free" foods, vegetables that can be eaten without restraint, with metabolic impunity. How can one so quickly forget that such a misuse of the word "free" is actually a mask for the more accurate term, "irresponsible"? For every action there is a reaction, and it's not always equal, despite what physicists may say...
Naturally, these thoughts beg a contemporary political analogy, but why reiterate the obvious? From those who want to do so much to those who do so little, there are ample examples of all sorts of extremes. Will these actions or inactions garner either appropriate gratitude or indignation? The reactions have thus far been out of proportion; why should one expect otherwise?
Do or do not, as Yoda has said. Freedom is the privilege of choice coupled with living with the consequences of one's own actions (and inaction). It is both price and reward, opportunity and Catch-22.
Katrina and Ophelia are out of human control, but how each of us responds is not. Likewise, what the government does is more a matter of electorate control than individual influence, but what we do about that is not. Should we always do everything just because we can? No. Like the truth, sometimes "all" is too much; sometimes not nearly enough.
What kind of student are you?
Apprentice or master, graduate or teacher,
What kind of student are you?
Do you sit quietly by
Watching time fly
Or do you drink in every word
That you've never before heard?
Are you one of those who races ahead,
Finishing assignments so there's no homework to dread?
Are you one who never hears anything new
Because knowledge has always come so quickly and easily to you?
Do you feel an irresistible need
To share your views with exceptional speed?
Do you flatter yourself that what you say will matter
To others intent on their own private patter?
Are you there to show the world what you know?
Are you there to drink deeply of the wisdom of the ages?
Are you there to share and grow in the sharing?
What kind of student are you?
Stretching is good for you, so I'm told
I stretch daily, warm or cold
Today my human tried to stretch
Good thing I'm a neko and not a lech
What is it about humans that makes them so stiff
Like an ancient wall painting, a hieroglyph
I stretch when I wake, mid-sleep, and after meals
I stretch and I roll because I know how good it feels
Stretching a limb or stretching a tail
People should stretch instead of cramping to no avail
Legs and limbs, minds and hearts
People should stretch all of their parts
If people would stretch their souls to each other
There'd be better tales to tell amongst one another
And perhaps the human race
Could find its place
Within the framework of creation
We'd celebrate with elation
And share the joys of stretching
Instead of fearful retching
That this same human race
Might soon destroy this place
We all call home
When I was a kitten I drank from the tap
My human would scoop water for me in a cap
I'd lick my balls right in my human's lap
Now we live in a bright shiny place
Where I can sit in the sun as I wash my face
And cars and trucks go by at a much slower pace
But the water in the hose and the tap aren't free
There's lead in the pipes that hose off my pee
And dead spiders in cobwebs everywhere that I see
My litter has been changed from cedar to pine
The feces that reeks is definitely mine
And ants race to my bowl before I can dine
There are more bills to pay
More guests come to stay
And my human these days is harder to sway
O that I could be once more worry-free
A neko abroad overlooking the sea
That's the life I would wish for me
What is a refugee?
Could it possibly be someone like me?
I live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world;
But people just like me lost everything when the waters swirled.
Houses are gone, property too
Even people maybe you knew
There hasn't been electricity or the Internet or cable
No frig or freezer or dining room table
Help's been slow to arrive and there's no place to go
Everyone's talking about shelter overflow
A few generations ago the drought cleared everyone out
Now it seems too much water is putting people to rout
Planes trains and trucks are loading up quick
People say there's a whole nation from which to pick
But each destination's shelters are filling up fast
And tomorrow looks a lot like yesterday's past
Refugees come across water, so they say
Well, folks from down South are definitely coming that way
There's no Moses to part the waters this time
Just slow-draining water leaving behind slime
There's anger and fear and frustration ahead
As the count mounts as we tally the dead
First there was fire in 2001
Now there's water by the gallon and mud by the ton
We're choking the air as the ozone hole grows
And the soil's polluted as everyone knows
Do you think that our country can't produce refugees?
How much more flight will it take till everyone sees?
Our once-great nation's in a bit of a mess
How will this generation deal with the stress?
Will we whine and sob and point fingers at others
Or will we lean on each other and recognize brothers?
Can we give and take refuge and not worry about words
Or will we go the way of the Great Plains herds?
Today is the day we honor the worker
By slacking off and imitating a shirker
We say farewell to the summer sun
To days of lounging around for fun
To bright colored garbs of red orange and yellow
To every noisy feathered fellow
To gardens green so lush and ripe
It's time to tear down vines and bare the pipe
Time to roll up sleeves
And rake fallen leaves
Time to check storm windows and radiators and chimneys
Time to dig out blankets and comforters stored behind skeleton keys
Time to prepare for holidays with family and friends
Time to store away summer's odds and ends
Time to seek activities indoors instead of out
But not quite yet time for that long winter pout
For autumn has yet to pass through turning breeze to gust
With its flash of brilliance before rendering all still in the dust
Still summer's over of that there can be no doubt
So let's have just one more barbecue while the sun is still out.
Chatty Catty I am called
Just because when JJ's mauled
I'm accused of telling tales
When all I've done is watch garden snails
But late at night when everyone's asleep
I prowl the grounds to guard this keep
And oft and long as I make my way around
I'll sing the news of what I've found
Ants and wasps each asleep in a nest
Resting up from a long day of being a pest
Dryer humming and clacking as it tumbles
While outside I hear the feral rumbles
Owls and hawks and swallows passing overhead
While diurnal creatures are safe in bed
Squirrels asleep and dogs indoors
While I prowl these grounds on all fours
Television blaring is done for the day
Stories of disaster that have held sway
Continue to flow across the screen
Close-captioned ghosts telling of what they've seen
Computer screen silently flickers against modem hum
Screaming enough horror stories to leave one numb
Immigrants telling Americans their country's no good
Asserting they'd leave if only they could
Children hearing only the negative side
With not enough evidence to turn the tide
Of harsh opinions aired with conviction
Allowed to be aired without restriction
Because that's the American way, you see
Free speech is allowed and idiots allowed to rant free
So I sing all night of what I've seen
And keen through the day once I'm clean
This morning Yahoo via Reuters is reporting that the European Union has announced that it will be sending refined gasoline to the U.S. in response to the disaster that has shut down refineries in the Gulf. Ironically, France is reportedly sending by far the most gasoline, and this at a time when French-bashing is in vogue. Germany, Spain, and Britain are also sending us some of their reserve supplies to tide us over for at least a month, these in addition to the help Canada announced yesterday. These countries have had mandatory reserves of at least 90 days ever since the Iran-Iraq war back in the 70's. The U.S., on the other hand, only stockpiles crude oil, thus leaving us vulnerable now that so many of our refineries are down.
European officials are being quoted as saying, "Whatever the U.S. asks, it will be given." Sadly, American reporters eye this generosity cynically, wondering what the political price tag will be, recognizing that the "hard ball" U.S. diplomats have been playing under Bush's regime will be difficult to continue in the face of such generosity.
In politics as in life, it's much harder to hold a line without seeming petty when other parties are prompt and generous in their open-handedness.
I was just wondering this morning if anyone thinks to send aid to the U.S. in times of disaster the way people here immediately set up hotlines and donation depots upon hearing of disasters overseas. Then this afternoon I came across an article on Yahoo highlighting Canada's intent to do what it can to help the U.S. alleviate a bit of the fuel crisis caused by the refineries in the Gulf that have been forced to shut down due to Katrina. Granted, the U.S. has trade restrictions in place that actually hinder such aid (in an attempt to protect domestic markets from being flooded and undersold by foreign sources). Don't you just love the irony?
I must say I am glad to be able to read that we neither have a monopoly on humanitarianism nor do we hide what should be a self-evident fact.
Let's hear it for Canada, a country that evidently does not intend to let our sticks and stones break their bones in our time of need.
Sudoku is a curious game
From Japan it got its name
Though the West gave it birth
Now it provides hours of mirth
Or endless agony for some
Who cannot make the numbers come
Or go into their proper spaces
Because they've stopped in other places
For hours on end I can tear my hair
Life for me has no other care
Than to fill those taunting empty boxes
Whose numbers are more elusive than foxes
Yes, Sudoku's the game for me
I love the madness, don't you see
It's smoking hot on the pavement
Good place to be frying eggs
Even the ferny undergrowth
Doesn't help cool the fur on my legs
Those twin engines flying overhead
Don't help matters either
Each time they buzz over the courtyard
Leaves me in need of a breather
Images of Hurricane Katrina's devastation
Fill me with converse fear
So much wind and water in motion
Is frightening with the Bay so near
My human is daily getting better
But that leaves me with a new concern
For I still rarely get to ride
On shoulders, but have to settle instead for the stern
But the house is filled once again with those odors
That can only mean cooked treats are near
And if I'm a very good kitty
Fresh shrimp may yet appear:
YUM
Where has the summer gone? I still hear a lawn mower diligently filling the air with one of the sounds of summer and the sweet smell of freshcut grass, and the sun has broken through particularly early this fine morning, but the news is filled with the sights and sounds of students preparing to return to classrooms, of parents heaving huge sighs of impending relief, of Labor Day Weekend sales, and of end-of-season barbecue preparations. When did the summer begin?
The last thing I remember is going home in late Spring to visit Dad and keep him company in the face of two consecutive funerals. Then there was a flurry of activity that included seeking, finding, and moving into a new abode across the Bay, followed by a long painful blur from which I am just now emerging. As far as I'm concerned, summer should be just about ready to begin. Such is my life . . .
Never mind being a day late and a dollar short; I've been told I'm a life late and a life short. Alternatively, I've been assured that I have a very young soul, in the grand scheme of things . . . Of course, this is in addition to having been born an old child . . . So if everyone is right, I have achieved the impossible: the ability to stand still in midstream of the flow of time . . . Is that why I always feel like I'm treading water, just killing time until the next life when I can get serious about all the commotion about motion in life? Or is it just my island heritage?
The mainland has seasons, and I've long enjoyed the seasonings that spice up life, but I've also enjoyed the philosophy that letting life come to you is a kinder, gentler, and therefore superior way of living. Of course, that's not an attitude conducive to survival in an urban environment, which has been my primary exposure on the mainland. Does anyone still value that which can only be achieved with patience and time?
I'm a Food Network aficionado, but recently I've noticed that all the hosts are sounding alike, using the same techniques, ingredients, and shortcuts. They are all very much aware of the half-hour time constraint on their shows, and they either feature only things that can be whipped up within that timeframe, or they cook things ahead, thus limiting the vicarious pleasure of the process and discouraging dilettantes from trying such recipes.
The same is true of Do-It-Yourself (DIY) and the more traditional How-To shows. Everyone treats all viewers as impatient victims of Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). Time is treated as the ultimate enemy, to be tricked, cheated, and short-circuited at every possible opportunity.
And yet, the truth is that time does, indeed, move inexorably on. Those of us who choose to step off the treadmill of life, to step away from the rat race that consumes so many, find ourselves out of step with the majority and out of luck if we desire ought of conventionality. We are left to wonder where each season has gone and to marvel as each new season arrives . . . outside our expectations . . .
When America was seen as a melting pot, there was a sense of hope that this innate sense of schizophrenia that comes with not being born into the dominant white culture would, in time, level out, perhaps even pass into oblivion. Alas, that is not to be.
Today America is being variously identified as a mosaic and a hopelessly dysfunctional society made up of such diversity that the term "separate but equal" has resurfaced in startling places.
So just how does that work for those caught midstream attempting "the assimilation process"? You're midstreas or mid-pool and suddenly the banks of the stream or sides of the pool recede. You're mid-life (or so you hope) and you've spent your youth and your energies trying to blend, to meld, to assimilate. It's been an upstream swim and you're pretty tired of feeling like a salmon en route to spawn, but that seems to be a very naturalistic thing, so though you're exhausted, you toil onward. Then suddenly you realize that while you've had your head down swimming upstream, the current has shifted but so has your goal. Individuality is still touted, but now somehow you're expected to know and understand your ethnic heritage, after having spent a lifetime trying to fathom the heritage into which you and your peers have been born and in which you have labored for so long.
Ethnic heritage? Okay, so you've heard things, but such talk was always quickly hushed at your approach. You've been pushed as much as pulled towards the Great American Dream of assimilation, so you're pretty clueless about much else. Up till now your single-minded determination has served you in good stead, but now you're out on a limb with no clue about the tree from which you've stemmed. And you're being held accountable for your ignorance. Yeah, right.
There's just enough anger at the seeming unfairness of it all to allow you to dimly see a certain sense in this new call for ethnic pride, for what else do you have left? At the same time, there's a sense of belonging and alignment that has been carefully developed and nurtured over a lifetime of assimilating that is not willing to let go of the notion of equality that includes a sense of sameness, of kinship with those whose similarities may not be as readily noticeable to the casual observer, but whose similarities leap out with the slightest conversational gambits, whose similarities are self-evident upon scrutiny. There is, logically enough, a similar difference between you and those whom you superficially resemble. So what's a puppy ... er ... kitten ... to do?
Poker, that great American card game that comes to us out of the Western tradition, has the answer: play the cards you're dealt and don't count your money while you're sitting at the table. As Kenny Rogers sings, "There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done."
Pat Robertson gives Christians a bad name, as do the majority of televangelists and other high-profile individuals who presume to speak for the (admittedly shrinking) multitudes. If one ought not to judge a book by its cover, then one ought not to judge people grouped by a label because a few loudmouths verbalize folly in public places. This guy clearly pays too much attention to the Old Testament and not enough to the New. There's such a thing as a close reading, but then there's selective reading, which is what those who wish to follow the bloodthirsty examples set forth in the Old Testament are doing. The O.T. is full of tragic morality tales, examples of folly, not examples to follow. What can such people be thinking? Ah, they're not. OK. But then, neither are those who judge all Christians by what such fools spout.
Pain pain go away
Don't even think about coming back another day
You've taken my pride
You've taken my fun
You've made me a cripple
Unable to run
I can't even walk to the bathroom with ease
It's time to go away and leave me alone please
I've rested and stretched and pummeled and wept
I've stopped eating and drinking and sitting you bet
I want to be able to sit stand and walk
I want to be able to move without a squawk
My JJ wants games I cannot provide
My Max knows it's no fun to even try to hide
I cannot pursue him or hunt him down
And JJ's resorted to being a clown
All they want is a little fun and games
And for me to be able to call out their names
But lying flat or flip flopping around
Not even reaching the bed but settling for the ground
Is not what they want or expect or deserve
I've got to find a way to liberate this pinched nerve
Am I obtuse? Has this been going on for a long time? I've only recently become aware of just how idiotically Asian Americans have been portraying themselves in television commercials. I'm not talking about immigrants, mind you. I'm talking about those who evidently have been born and reared in this country. The AA's I've been seeing recently gush over the lamest, most crassly materialistic things, as though determined to throw off the "stigma" of being intellectual. Don't want to come off too brainy? No worries: you're looking like total asses. Come on! It's just a drink, just a car, just a weekly sale special. Being American doesn't necessarily mean that you have to buy into the lowest common denominator you can find...
Sun is shining overhead
Herbs and veggies snug in bed
Clouds above that promised rain
Sunlight scatters through dusty pane
Eye of newt and toe of fig
JJ eats like a pig
Rhyme and meter flee from me
Triathletes flounder at sea
Football lineman cracks his head
Cannot wait to die in bed
Drops right there upon the floor
Doesn't even get out the door
Bush bashing's an all-weather sport
Five more years by latest report
Iraqis thought we'd set them free
Now they wish we'd just let them be
London bobbies shoot to kill
Following American cowboy drill
No sense wasting taxpayers' monies
On fools that flee and leave their cronies
Pitt and Jolie still in the news
While Aniston reportedly sits and stews
Who cares about the private lives
Of people with creative drives
Let them work and live in peace
For life is only ours to lease
Time to live and time to die
Time enough later to cry
Now's the time to be up and doing
Let others watch and do all the cooing
Didn't Carole King once sing something about not having time for the pain? I am so tired of all this pain. My human has been projecting pain for three weeks now, and I'm pretty fed up with it. It has been interfering with my rides, our cuddles, our quality time . . . to say nothing of the more basic interference with things like breakfast, litter clean-up, and JJ's daily game. I say it's time to just suck it up and get on with life.
Of course, that might well result in us being abandoned alone in this place, but it's not as new as it once was. I'm resigned to calling it home, and to tell the truth, until yesterday it seemed like a pretty fair tradeoff. Yes, I missed the fog, but the warmth has been wonderful and the quality time we get out of doors in the courtyard is awesome. Besides that, there is so much more room in which to chase JJ and to elude the little fellow, though I must admit he seems to be getting a bit more muscular these days. Oh well, that just means I get more opportunities to put him in his place. (I'm getting a bit stronger, too, I think . . . ;->)
Besides the pain, there's the whole hunger thing. My human is such a noisy thinker, you know? When my human feels pain, the whole house has to know about it. Now that my human is trying this new feeding regimen, our portions seem to have been cut as well. I ask you, where is the justice in that? I'm exercising. I'm slimming down. I don't have glucose problems. Why do I have to have less food less often? And don't tell me it's because of that walking, six-legged protein that has been invading the dishes of late, because that's just the lamest excuse I've ever heard for cutting a fellow off from his food.
Pain. My human should do what I do: when I hurt because I was held down when they were applying hydrogen peroxide to my cheek where JJ had scratched me, did I complain? Well, okay, I did; but then I got on with my life - I let my human know in no uncertain terms how I felt by making a generous deposit right under the computer desk. There was no ambiguity in the statement, and my human understood. We have had no further misunderstandings along those lines. Moral: When it hurts, give a shit.
The sun has burned the fog away
And the blur of pain is also at bay
With fresh eyes I view this house
Which could clearly use more than a douse
Of handy cleaning fluids and sticks
Instead of mere computer tricks
And games with light and shadow meant to hide
The mess my human has allowed to grow inside
Busy with work and fatigue and pain
Is no excuse for that carpet stain
Created no doubt by more of JJ's hacks
But clearly left by some human's lax
Attitude
Dude
Don't tell me you're still not feeling well
For I've seen you playing and I can tell
If you can sit up and talk and tap
You're not going to leave me with the rap
This sty needs mucking as all can see
You cannot leave these piles be
So get cracking
And finishing unpacking
While JJ and I
Watch time fly
Along with that pesky hawk outside
That got us tied up inside
Today
Wanna play
Each day the sun comes later to play
Each day the sun makes a shorter stay
Our noses twitch as we sniff the air
Staying late outside is becoming a dare
My human lies prone much of the time
And can no longer stop on a dime
But last night once again the air was filled
With the odor of garlic cooked and distilled
My human tottered painfully about
Occasionally stopping for a profane shout
That human has taken to pricking skin
Measuring glucose again and again
My nose continues to quiver each day
As I smell the news brought back across the Bay
The wind is changing the birds sing of flight
Hawks and owls are less seen by the growing moonlight
One last butterfly lingers outside
Guess she missed her end of summer ride
I frequently wipe my nose anew
Trying to clear out the garlic chicken stew
Pine needles are drying soon they'll fall
But my human remains completely in my thrall
So what's with the bloodletting morning noon and night
Somehow somewhere something's not right
Sunshine on my fur can make me happy
Sunshine on my fur can make me smile
Sunshine almost always takes the blues away
When sunshine comes to stay awhile
Blanket sleeping all day long
Blanket sleeping can't go wrong
But dozing in the sunshine is far warmer
With fresh air blowing through me like a song
Fog banks are fine for keeping cozy
Fog banks make blanket sleeping fun
But sunshine on my fur makes me so happy
I just want to get up and run
Busy day with dust a-flying
Furniture moving all about
Floors are slick with mop a-swishing
Dirt and grime are all washed out
So I move from bed to floor
Then I move beyond the door
Dust and dirt and mop all follow
As I see the house floor glow
Sunshine pales as day is waning
Dirty paws are barred from floors
But a loving human lets me
Rides up high, then down on all fours
Sunshine go away today
Come again when I can play
Let me return to blanket slumber
Lock out that JJ bumbler
(Just kidding)
Rhyme has followed sun away
Rhythm too has gone astray
Time to end this pathetic doggerel
Time to chase the neighborhood squirrel
Genetics is a funny thing. With all the medical diagnostic tools available these days, all you can really learn sometimes is that you've been screwed since birth. It's easy enough to take pride in the positive potential passed down from one's ancestors, though sometimes the weight of expectations can be overwhelming. It's a whole different ballgame when said genes guarantee future bodily malfunctioning . . . from both sides, no less . . .
I was down to one grandparent by the age of five, but that one grandparent lasted well past the birthing of a fifth generation, so longevity seemed to be an interesting gamble for the whole clan. That was back when folks could still die of old age . . .
Have you noticed that no one dies of old age anymore? There's always a much more specific diagnosis, a determination of precisely which organ(s) pooped out and exactly how. This information, in turn, is used to scare survivors straight into the waiting arms of medical support industries such as pharmaceuticals, therapists, nutritionists, exercise specialists, and other related ancillary service providers. People fend off death with every last dollar, dime, and cent because the mystery has been unveiled and the details seem to be open to being bought off. Bull.
Okay. So it's no longer a question of whether or not I'm going to be able to "dodge the bullet"; it has now been confirmed that I am going to have to live with this disease and quite probably die from complications that arise from it. Fine. Does that mean that I'm going to let it rule my life from this point forward? What ever happened to accepting the limitations of life and going about the business of living it instead of ducking and dodging and fleeing and hiding in hopes of evading death just a little bit longer? Okay, if you like the dodge, then enjoy yourself; but if you prefer to go for the gusto and shun the shadows, where's the advantage of a half-life existence?
Hm... I hear an HP anthem sneaking up on me . . .
Dealing with being hurt requires far greater courage than just getting hurt, though the latter can make for a more impressive spectacle.
You don't know it, Max, but you actually do prefer more complex blends to simple food. You haven't been satisfied with a straight can of chicken since you were six months old. You won't touch anything but fine blends of several different types of meat anymore, and you care very much which brands you are served.
Cooking is particularized chemistry, wherein ingredient interactions combine to form wholes infinitely superior to their discrete parts. The more flavors are involved, the more engaged the palate is with the experience of food passing over it en route to the stomach and on to nurture the various parts of one's body. This experience, when sufficiently complex, also nurtures the soul. Cavalierly dismissed, the soul is tortured, knowingly or not. The body rebels, inflates or diminishes, and health is put at risk.
So you think you're a gourmutt, that you're easily pleased with the simpler things in life, and that may be true. What you don't realize is that the simple things in life are no longer inexpensive or easy to acquire. Organic fruits and vegetables, whole grain goods, and chemical-free meats have been identified as highly desirable and therefore high ticket items in the contemporary grocery store. Even fresh water is best bottled, thanks to the air and ground contamination so prevalent in modern day America. The days of being an average gourmutt are gone, swallowed up in the epidemic tide of obesity sweeping the country, thanks to processed goods and box store marketing.
So farewell to the casual hamburger (and its many boxed helpers).
So long to Mac-n-cheese.
So long to colored sugar water
That mothers used to use to please.
So long to refined carbohydrates.
So long to marbled meat.
So long to rolled up fruit sheets
And every other packaged treat.
First of all let me make it perfectly clear that it is JJ, the pureblood, who has the alley cat palate, whereas I, true descendant of infinitely more complex bloodlines, am like a finely aged wine: full of complex subtleties. That said, let us get on to the discussion at hand.
From the French culture we get a strong negative sense of aristocracy, yet it is from this same French culture that we learn of the great pride in the brewing of fine wines, the fermenting of such an amazing variety of cheeses, and the elevation of cooking to artistic creativity, all of which smacks of aristocratic distinction.
We who live across the wide sea and great expanses of land pride ourselves on our egalitarianism, yet there are those among us who also take great pride in their powers of discrimination, especially as applies to the discernment of the palate. Do you consider yourself a gourmet or a gourmutt?
JJ will eat anything, as long as it is not too strongly laced with those aromatic herbs that are toxic to his kind. It remains for those around him to protect him from himself. For him the Food Channel is merely an obstacle in his path to a human plate and whatever remains for the licking.
Some humans, on the other hand, are more particular than others in what they put on their plates. Now, I like my meat straight up: no fuss, no muss, and definitely no added herbs or spices polluting the perfection God put into any cooked fowl. My human, however, is always adding things, making good food foul with garlic, ginger, onions, basil, cilantro, oregano, chilis, tabasco, Worchestershire sauce, various tomato-based concoctions, shoyu (soy sauce), lemon juice, lime juice, other fruit juices, vinegar... you get what I'm trying to say here. You can call it complex all you like; I know toxic waste when I smell it.
Aging food and beverages may work for some fancy folk, but I like mine fresh out of the can. Old is old, and I can taste it. Don't be trying to tell me taste improves with age; I know spoiled when I smell it. What's so great about refrigerator-burnt leftovers anyway? The only thing more complex about it is the variety of bacteria growing in it when it's reserved to us. HAH!
When I was a child we passed outgrown clothing around to younger siblings and cousins. Tools were shared among uncles, friends, and neighbors. Recipes were swapped among the aunties, though we cousins agreed that some aunties' subsequent versions were invariably superior to others, no matter where the recipe started... Possessions just didn't leave the immediate circles.
When I was a young adult the Salvation Army and Goodwill began to get pickier about donations and costlier in their outlet stores. Garage sales began to spring up around some of the more affluent neighborhoods, then among the less affluent as the housecleaning and moneymaking advantages became obvious to all and sundry. Those without garages had lawn sales. The weather was always sunny, so why not?
These neighborhood sales allowed folks to see what a family had been hoarding over the years, which was an initial stumbling block, but soon enough it was showing more similarities than differences and the idea caught on in a big way. Prices were quite reasonable as people understood that they were doing each other favors in providing cool things and in hauling away unwanted junk. It was a most excellent reciprocal situation.
Eventually this small idea went big-time and the Swap Meet was born, taking the humble garage sale out of the neighborhood and opening up private lives to the public at large. There was a certain ironic sense of privacy in selling to strangers instead of neighbors and friends. Buying was expanded to people of different cultures and classes as well. All too soon the first humble swap meets became Big Business. Now one can find pretty much anything at a Swap Meet. Unfortunately, the prices are not far from retail among the less scrupulous, partly to conceal the sometimes shady origins of the merchandise.
Still, one can cruise an old-fashioned neighborhood and still find the occasional quiet garage sale, though block sales are becoming more common, wherein several neighbors join together to set out their unwanted goods simultaneously in the hope of attracting a larger audience. These garage sales now run the gamut from the avaricious overcharger to the old-fashioned dime to dollar seller.
Saddest of all for me, however, is the Estate Sale, something I have only recently encountered. This is the selling off of the leftovers in the wake of an individual's passing, i.e., death. Once the Will has been read and the heirs and assigns have taken that which they may or may not have coveted, the remnants are offered up to the public. I went to one once: it felt like picking over bones; I'll not go again.
Sure, there are deals and steals to be found, treasures unrecognized by survivors. Antique dealers and souvenir collectors haunt such places, I'm sure. For me, however, it's just too sad. I even cringed at the sight of a sign advertising one while I was cruising garage sales this weekend. I am enough of a vulture accidentally; intentionally picking through a deceased person's belongings in search of a steal of a deal is just too foul for me.
In between catnaps I've been rereading HBP and I've noticed a few more curiosities...
- I can't help noticing that Ch. 2 presents Narcissa, a blonde, with Severus, a greasy-haired dark fellow who for once seems pretty cool; while Ch. 29? presents us with Fleur, another blonde, juxtaposed against the normally uber-cool but now physically marred Bill.
- In Ch. 3 as they approach Slughorn's borrowed residence, Dumbledore adjures Harry to keep his wand at the ready but assures him that he has little about which to worry because Harry is with him. Then in Ch. 28 as they are leaving Tom Riddle's appropriated Cave, DD tells Harry that he is not worried because he, DD, is with Harry. The baton is definitely being passed here.
I wonder just how well-balanced such pairings are... I must look further...
3 August 2005, 6:23 p.m.
Keep your friends close but your enemies closer:
- Snape is arguably a better friend to Harry than the latter realizes while Horace Slughorn, whom Harry assumes is a friend of DD's because they were longtime colleagues, reeks of conspiracy, from the frown that creases his forehead when he first notices Slytherin's ring on DD's hand to the mystery of the fourth Death Eater atop the tower to Slughorn's eagerness to close the school in the wake of DD's death.
I see my human's been lamenting a recent visit to the doctor's office. That's not what I'm told when it's my turn. You should hear the faradiddles I'm told about fun outtings, good for me, and promised treats that never materialize...
So this morning I slept in, still a little disgruntled with my human for threatening me with a hose yesterday, though I did note that JJ actually had a near miss before he moved... Silly little boy... Anyway... I was sure that we were finally settling down to a regular rhythm once again, but that was not to be...
A little before noon I arose for my daily roll and game with this lovely white butterfly who likes to swing through the courtyard about then. Unfortunately, I was too late. Then I looked for my human's lap; again, too late - JJ was there before me. So I went back to bed. When I awoke again, I found my human dressing to go out; again, I was too late - so I did the only sensible thing: I went back to sleep.
Much later this afternoon my human returned bearing tasty smelling packages, though when JJ started to investigate, they mysteriously disappeared behind closed doors. Fortunately, it finally seemed time for the screen doors to stay open, and I spent an idyllic late afternoon under the ferns before making my way inside, just in time before the doors were locked again. Finally, it seemed, my timing was synchronizing!
So this evening I finally found myself ahead of the game, or at least ahead of JJ. My human and I spent some seriously quality time watching "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" and making peace before JJ came and budged his way into the action. Since then we (JJ and I) have been having an awesome game of tag, and he's the "It" boy: hahahahaha! Now it's his turn to be a little late! Yes!
A visit to a physician always seems to inspire the most concerned looks, followed by what seems to be a reflexive request for lab work. Lab work, of course, means the drawing of blood, something I do not dread as does Max. No, what I dislike is the fasting directive, too often followed by an offer for an afternoon appointment. What is with this institutional sadism? Fortunately, morning visits are allowed, even encouraged, and summer is a great time to take advantage of such opportunities.
I guess I'm accustomed to major urban centers, to waiting rooms where people hang out the gills and one can read much while waiting. I should have noticed how close I was able to park...
Silly me, I just thought I was feeling lucky. So I stuffed a street meter full of coinage and daringly took the stairs (instead of the usual elevator ride...) There were two technicians in the lab, only one of whom had a patient. There was someone ahead of me at the check-in desk, but she had #12 and I drew #13. (Note how oblivious I am of real-life signs, symbols, signifiers, et al...) Things were going so smoothly that I didn't know what to do with myself. Then the receptionist/cashier handed me two sizable containers, a gallon baggie, and directed me to pee... Of course, I had just emptied my bladder before leaving the house: doesn't everyone over the age of five?
There had been two technicians outside, there were two restrooms in back, and there were now two sizable plastic containers staring me down. An embarrassingly long time passed... In the end embarrassment won out; I conceded that I was not going to be filling these containers anytime soon, certainly not without further input. Red-faced, I submitted my paltry output and left. On the way out, I asked the technician who had drawn my blood just how much urine was needed. She told me the techs only need 2 cc: so what was with that double-barreled demand? She was kind enough to check for me, told me I was fine, and sent me on my way. This kind of public humiliation is what I get for not studying medicine like a properly ambitious child, I guess...
Curiously, when I had blood tested on the other side of the Bay, the vampiric technicians there cheerfully withdrew some four full vials. Here just a thin, half-sized vial seemed to suffice. Maybe they have learned to do more with less here... We'll see...
Anyway, I was prepared for some serious blood-letting and had therefore already picked out my post-donation breakfast spot. After all, one shouldn't drive on an empty stomach after surrendering blood, right?
Still, it was such a bright, beautiful morning and the downtown area has a curiously quaint charm, (well-cultivated by strict laws and regulations, I might add), so I strolled about.
Half an hour later I found the restaurant I had been seeking, and it was well worth the walk. I don't believe I've ever had such light, airy waffles and I love how well the oil factor is controlled there. The ham steak is also a respectable portion, not one of those pathetic refugees from sandwich fixings that are too often used as excuses for meat on breakfast plates.
Hey, I'd already given blood for testing and figured I'd better get my last licks in before yet another health care provider tries to cut me off... Immature, you say? I watched my mother die on a healthful but ultimately unhelpful diet that left her miserable. I'm going young(er) but more satisfied, and that's all there is to it. Word has it our bodies don't need food in heaven anyway, so it's not like there's going to be ample opportunity later...That's assuming I'll be let into heaven with my arrogant, blasphemous attitudes anyway...
Ever watch those cooking shows where veal morsels or chicken breasts are prepared scaloppini, so that each piece gets pounded into a lovely thin slice that spreads before it gets breaded and thrown into piping hot oil? That's what happens to women when they turn 50, though most medical professionals encourage them to submit in their 30s or 40s. Uh huh... Of course, the male equivalent parallels rotisserie or spit cooking... The medical profession did gain much of its modern knowledge from WWII research deemed inhumane, did it not?
I believe in the miracles of modern medicine... for others... Myself, I'm old-fashioned, at least that way . . .
I'm a full fool, double "l", double "o".
Usually it's JJ who likes more, please, but somehow today despite the shiny sunrays my paws hurt, maybe from too much cool dirt. The vaulted ceilings and cool tiles are attractive features and fine selling points when it's 90 degrees out, but stay awhile and chill with me and then we'll see...
Harry Potter's on my mind, still obsessing about curious parallels and odd couplings/doublings/deja vu things...
The CHAMBER OF SECRETS is both a cave far beneath Hogwarts, possibly the Lake, and one's mind (Riddle's and HP's, actually).
Huh! That just made me think: Riddle's mind holds the answers to the Horcrux riddles, but Harry's mind holds the answers to the Godric's Hollow riddle that is driving me personally crazy... and DD's mind seemed to positively teem with secrets, so much so that he needed to use the pensieve regularly to sift through them all, besides which DD clearly spent much time wading through the chambers of other people's minds mining their secrets in search of the answers to TR's secrets... I think I'm chasing my tail, but it's fun: Wheeeeee!
Both Bellatrix and McMonagall, the two female right hands of the two most awe-inspiring wizards alive, consider the possibility that their respective leaders may have been mistaken about Snape...
The HALF-BLOOD PRINCE is both Snape, half the son of Eileen Prince and half the son of a Muggle, and Tom Riddle, if we see him as the half-blood last uncrowned heir to Slytherin and aspirant to world dictatorship.
In the second chapter, "Spinners End", Snape protects Narcissa from the eavesdropping Wormtail. In the twenty-seventh chapter, he protects Harry from himself. As Dumbledore has been, so is Snape: a guide, a counselor, but not a confidante...
Must ponder more...
