At Last

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

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…

Today

Today

I’m blushing over my gushing.

‘Nuff said.

Twilight

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

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

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, so I'm told

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

Pumpkin Festival 10-17-05

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

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

Eaters Three

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 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

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

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?