Cat Ass Trophy

At the end of June, as July was about to show its head, I got rid from my cat Lulu. It only took 3 years to do so. She was bad cat.

I'm kind of a cat person, so clearly the 3 year delay was due to some inner struggles about the situation. 

While I did end up returning her to the no kill shelter from whence she came, I made the mistake of listening to outer voices for years, before doing so. Rather than doing what I should have, which is to listen to the Inner Voice.

I've said again and again, listen to the Inner Voice.  The inner voince always knows - that you are in the wrong situation, that you are unhappy, that you should be making a change, etc.  Of course, that doesn't always mean the inner voice is pointing you towards Easy and Trouble-free choices.  No, its merely telling you that you should be going in a different direction.  Its telling you to MAKE that change, whatever it is.  Or sometimes its telling you not to trust something, or to follow a better pathway, etc.  And so on.  Its your instinct, and its pretty wise.

In my case, with Lulu the cat, my inner voice said, 'This cat is troubled, and you are going beyond yourself to the point of not enjoying the pet ownership.  Reset this situation."

My mistake was listening to people like Linda, Sue, Tae, and others. They all said, with great emotion, "Noooo, you cannnnnn't!!! Its so cruuuuuuelll! She'll be miserable back at the shelter!"

But this makes the assumption that the owner is a godlike, emotionless, even tempered person that remains unaffected by all things.  I'm not said person.  When the cat would dig deep grooves into my wooden floors, something I've never ever seen a cat do, I would get quite upset. I tried to let it go, but it upset me. It was like putting up with a bad girlfriend, really.  When she's scrambled up the french doors, scrambled around the tops of them, and then jumped down and ran back and forth, it would shatter my nerves. Yet I accepted it. Never liked it, but did accept it.

But the scratching was the hardest part.  It was bad enough that she would aggressivly bite and attack me at times, for all kinds of reasons. No, what stressed me out was that I could not have visitors without her scratching THEM. She would swipe at my sister, at my mother, at my cat sitters, at my friends.  

Then, that last Saturday in June, as I chatted with someone, the cat came up in conversation. I began my whines about the downsides of Lulu the cat. 

That was the straw that broke the camels back. I heard myself. I heard me talking about Lulu as if she was Torment and Burden.  Wow, I thought as I balthered -  like an out of body experience - I heard myself whining. And complaining. And realized that this was just not good. Enough was enough, I had been denying and delaying the inevtiable for over 3 years, and there was only one person that was living my life and to actually make The Right Decision.  So I biked home, stuffed her into the cat carrier, and brought her back to the original shelter from whence she came.

I strangely feel no remorse over this. Probably because they didn't flinch whne I brought her back. They knew and rememerd, when they saw her.  Her descripton did say, on the cage when I got her 3 years ago: This is a Feisty Cat! Aint THAT the truth.   In the end I'd say, I was a good owner. I hope for her, that someone will be smitten by her upon visiting the shelter, and take her in. But if not? She'll live the rest of her days in a no kill shelter, well cared for.  I've done my time, and I thank me for it.

Scents and Memory

Its interesting how a scent will bring up an emotion.  The smell of cut grass in the summer time brings me right back to being 7 years old, spending the summer with my cousins in Farmland, Indiana. 

I'm cheerfully biking around a small town that seems endless and, fairly interesting in its detail. Despite the fact that in reality nothing was going on, it was and is a dead town and, held up against any other town in america, is as dull as the proverbial dishwater.  The truth is, dishwater  may have some more interesting properties to it than that of Farmland. But I was a kid, and biking around a nothing town is more than interesting, its new and fascinating.

The cut grass of Anywhere In Summertime reminds me, of climbing up a metal tube that was the local school's fire escape. For us the fire escape chute was a slide, one we had to climb into to reach the escape door at the top floor of the school. All in order to shoot back down, to the ground level below. that 40 foot climb upward and slide downward had to be frought with all kinds of perils.  

I can tell you that I do recall seams within that metal tube, as we slid back down.  If one of the seam-lips of that tube were bent or damaged, it would be easy to shear ourselves open in one way or another. But kids have a way of miraculously escaping danger, despite the questionable things they engage in. And climbing the tube was one activity that didn't bite us on the ass.  If I were an adult witnessing what we were doing, I'd either yell and scream or beat our asses for climbing along and up into that steep metal tunnel. 

But there wasn't anyone around to witness what were doing, for better or worse; it was like being in a desert wasteland, there by the public school. This was a bona fide farm town, and people mustve been indoors escaping the July heat.

Acts that  human society surely engaged in as soon as "shelter" was created: Find Food. Make clothing. Build shelter. Get the fuck out of the sun, wind and rain. 

This dead down, heated and dried from the summer sun, was just another hot dry summer spot where nothing much was going on. And the smell of cut grass brings me right back there.

Hair Down

His hair is matted down in some strange fluids he puts in it.  Like there's work going on there in trying to tame it or change it, but it just ends up blobbed down, looking limp and greasy.  A weirdness prevails in the image from it, like a demented chld molester god forbid, or something even more freaky. Definitely something off the rails of general society.

There's occasional bursts of unbelievable poignancy and lucidity that spring up in conversations, but that is part of the disorder.  Observations that are keen and bright can be followed by hatreds and confusions. Its not dissimilar to what many other laypeople experience and exhibit, but on a milder, more schaadenfreude-type level.   The puffiness around the face and joylessness in the eyes however gives away the illness, and it can be alarming to the lay person to see.

The extreme changes of focus within conversational monologues borders on the unbelievable. It comes at almost breakneck speed and can be difficult to follow in any regular linear fashion.

But again, this is brought forth by the illness. Its a rambling monologue, full of hopes and dreams and checklists, and exclamations. Business ideas, dreams, and of course: despairing declarations of determined exodus from this fair city. When all is said and done, fukkit, I'm outta here man.

In the end its impossible to know, where his path will lead.  But, do I even know, the path that will be, for myself?

In a sense, we're the same, he and I. Not so dissimilar.  Perhaps thats why it bothers me.

To be continued. By the turns of the earth, and time.

The Mysteries of Women. And Men Too, I'm Sure

Standing in the coffee bar waiting for my free iced mocha, I got to admiring the physical presence of a young lady who also waited.

She was deeply in animated conversation with the barista, altho I couldn't hear with all the commotions of other conversations in the small shoppe.

As my drink order was announced, starbux-style, I stepped forward and was privvy to the sound of said young lady's voice.  It was deep and husky, surprisingly a jarring contrast to the young lady's appearance.  With her almost-chiffon dress, a semi-sheer white, she seemed lite, tanned, attractive, with an easy manner.

While her manner didn't actually change, her demeanor changed in my mind.   With a rough and husky voice, suddenly her appearance became slightly cloaked in a tougher and grittier persona.   Still attractive and pretty, still the same person, but different in my mind from the fantastical notion I had concocted upon first and second glance.

And then she turned, to reach for her own drink.  A large tattoo on her left shoulder-blade, in a sort of blue black ink.  Suddenly, she was no longer one of the masses in my mind, but someone who might run withe the burlesque set.

And yet, when all is said and done... for all my judgey judgement... Do I really know all that much about her?

My point being, that as human beings, our minds are firing at a mile a minute, even when we're dull and dimwitted.  We make our own assessments and judgements, everywhere we go.    And its nice to know, in the end, that we can be quite wrong - about situations, people, places, etc.     I can appreciate that.

Marthie's Lament

She was utterly vexed. Couldn't understand why her newfound riches in life didn't include the Keys to the Kingdom.  In this case, a family island in New England.

Marthie thought for certain that by marrying her rich wall street beau, somehow she would be invited to the family compound of her even-richer friend Sharon.  Surely money, and her husband's wall street status, would now get them invited. 

But friendship and entree sometimes has to do with breeding; established history; social circles; common conversations; and personal relationships. Its not always about the size of a bank account. In fact in various ways the Blue Bloods—the Old Rich—look disdainfully upon what are termed The Nouveau Riche.  These newbie millionaires are really just pretenders; they don't step forth with the trappings and breedings, with family history, or with family compounds and the dynastic subjugations and swindles that made them all so famously and ferociously clever!  

The Nouveau Riche? They just have loads of money.  But the blue bloods! They have Breeding; they have History... and they know Protocol.

Marthie would go on speculating, why why why, wasn't she invited to Sharon's family island compound in New England, with Sharon and her husband. Why why why.

But thats just banging one's head against the wall. 

Unbeknownst to her, since she was quite busy—banging her head against that wall.

People people

How to handle drama queens.  How to handle. 

I am pondering this.  

Or perhaps there's not enough room for it in my world, as I am the one that needs to be the drama queen?

The Hunt is On!!

Went on a  treasure hunt with a friend. 

Oh sorry I think the term is scavenger hunt. 

It was promoted by a local store.  Part of the celebration for their 5th Anniversary. 

The idea was, go around with a sheet of clues, and visit all these other stores. Get them to sign your sheet, and answer the cryptic riddles about each particular participating store.

In Williamsburg.

Exhausting.

But not for my friend!

She delightedly (and competitively) ran from store to store, like a mad woman, and loved every minute of it!!  It wasn't stores that were all that close by, either. Some of them were close to a mile apart!

And damned if she not only won the grand prize, 

but also stirred up business for herself on two fronts, 

won some other prizes including a free haircut and a free picture framing. 

And other such stuff.

In truth, she was fulfilled. And, inspired.

So I guess in reality, it WAS a treasure hunt.  

She won the booty!