Even more cat p0rn!!

Sweet snuggle girl Marilyn

My little lovebug, Marilyn.  So purrrfect!

 

Generosity

I will never forget that one scene from ER where Dr Green lays dying, his daughter at his bedside, as he gives her his final advice.  “Be generous,” he gasps.  I love that scene.  Sometimes, when I am feeling stingy, Dr Green’s voice replays in my head, admonishing me.

 

It reminds me of a Bible passage we studied in church a few weeks ago.  The passage (Second Corinthians 8:1-6) was thus:

 

1And now, brothers, we want you to know about the grace that God has given the Macedonian churches. 2Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. 3For I testify that they gave as much as they were able, and even beyond their ability. Entirely on their own, 4they urgently pleaded with us for the privilege of sharing in this service to the saints. 5And they did not do as we expected, but they gave themselves first to the Lord and then to us in keeping with God’s will. 6So we urged Titus, since he had earlier made a beginning, to bring also to completion this act of grace on your part. 7But just as you excel in everything—in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in complete earnestness and in your love for us—see that you also excel in this grace of giving.”

 

It’s a great passage.   “See that you also excel in this grace of giving,” writes the Apostle Paul.  In other words, “be generous.”

 

More cat p0rn

Sheba, enthralled by the Mousebird.

I got a couple of pictures of Sheba today.  We were playing Mousebird.   (The fishing pole toy has mysterious “bait” that is furry and grey, with feathers…hence we call it Mousebird.  It has its own theme song too.  Yes, we are weird here!!)

Sheba plotting her next move

Marilyn is my glamour girl, my snuggler, but Sheba is the one that comes out to play.  She makes me laugh.  I don’t know what I would do without either of them.

 

A gentle soul

Portentious of bad news received near the end of the day, I had a horrible time at work, all day.  I was just cranky for no particular reason.  Phones were ringing way too often and I was fighting hard to get organized and do some problem-solving, trying to get a new project started (not my choice, but something that was forced on handed to me and I am excited about- just not today).  Unfortunately, though, it has no buy-in from my co-workers that already hate work, and this change is disruptive to them as well.  Today was especially hard.  This new project pulls me out of the mix of our group work.

 

 We have a group of clients that meets monthly for a support group and I have been making the reminder calls.  Last month, one of the people on the list never answered the phone.  This month, his phone was disconnected.  (These things are not unexpected from our clients.)  I hoped he would remember…it’s always at the same bat time, same bat channel.

 

This particular person was not someone I knew well.  He- if I remember correctly-  collected cans on the street for money (can collectors and other people who keep the streets clean occupy a special place in my heart).  He may have been a little slow mentally, but was very insightful in certain ways; patient, kind.  He helped others- the group benefited from his presence.  He served as a mentor for children in his neighborhood- a sorely needed role model- an older man with a good heart.  I had had few interactions with him, but he had a certain special something that I can’t put into words.  Maybe like an aura.  What does make one person different from another, anyway?

 

I found out very near the end of the day that he had died.  I don’t know why I feel so incredibly, disproportionately sad at this news.  I don’t bond with people easily.   His corner – our corner- of the world had lost something dear and rare.

 

The person who told me this bad news said with a non-characteristic tenderness, “He was a gentle soul.”  That was the same thing I was thinking.   There was nothing else to say; I went back to my not-very-private work area and cried.  That’s all.  No words.  Only tears.

 

Dying to get in

For some reason I am very weepy this morning, on our American Independence Day.  Usually I hate holidays’  interruption into my daily routines and find July 4th to be one of the silliest displays of “Ugly Americanism” possible.  But somehow today, I started thinking about the Statue of Liberty and how she was the first thing that immigrants saw as they disembarked awful, stinking steamships–  if they had survived the journey at all- the tired, the poor, the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” 

And it got me to thinking about how my ancestors got off those boats and had their last names mangled and Americanized (by possibly well-meaning and overworked Ellis Island employees) and lost part of their identities in exchange for newfound freedoms.  You know not everyone survived the journey; of course even now many people from Mexico die for the same reason.  Trying to enter Los Estados Unidos with a dream of a better life, just as my European ancestors did- and we mangle their hyphenated names too, our computer systems unable to handle the not-even-very complex system of ….well I digress.  My maiden name is unpronounceable and unspellable even in its Ellis-Islandified version- and I’ve seen it in the original language.  Jack’s is “odd” as well.  My dad’s ancestors were some of the few survivors of a ship that burned off-shore in a horrendous blaze visible for miles.  My maternal grandmother’s great-great-grandmother came over on a sailboat.   But our families came here- to America- with hope.  Hope and faith that carried them through steerage and seasickness and storms and uncertainty and probably even the separation from family back home awaiting the letter – in any language- telling them that it was finally time to join Papa in the new country.

I also have been thinking too much about this stupid ongoing war that we are still in for no reason. 

This year it is not a stupid picnic for me.  Nor just a stupid parade (though I will be there).  Not just a gun salute by the fewer-and-fewer surviving WWII veterans.  It is an actual celebration of freedom- well, the ones we still have and need to continue to fight for.  Fight with your pen (or your computer, or the library’s computer if you don’t have one) for it is mightier than the sword.  We the people elected our officials.  They need to  know what you think.  Tell them.  Write them.  Call them.  Even meet with them- they just might agree to it (yes, I know this personally.)

I wrote before about how death would be a sort of freedom.  Maybe that is why I am weepy today- because my ancestors were the ones that did not die while seeking freedom.  That, my friends, is irony: the best and most beautiful kind.

God bless America.  Let freedom ring.

 

Nude elves and sprites! Click now!

Nude!  Nude!  Elves and sprites, nude and frolicking in sylvan splendor!  Click here now!

 

I am so freaking sick of sp4m, I could barf Lucky Charms.

 

Breaking news: Jack is an ELF!!!

Apparently he is not a sprite after all (note the lack of wings).  He is an elf.  I am glad that I have been alerted to this incompatibility.  Look how happy he is, though, smoking underneath the magic mushroom.  And when Jack is happy, I am happy.

 

I drew this picture years ago and just found it in a pile of old papers and craft supplies in the basement.  It does look kind of ancient and runic, no?  Like something found in a battered leather-bound tome?   OK, I’m just really disorganized and delusional.  But I wanted to share it.  I hope it brings a bit of delight to your day.

 

Craigslist: Cat translation dictionary needed!

I awoke at 3am, and got up out of bed to enjoy the best part of the day: the time just before dawn, when all the crepuscular creatures are partying.  I love dawn, just before the sun comes up.

 

Once it was light enough outside, I went out on the porch- I have a great second-story porch with a decent view, and a tree that envelops it on two sides (which a previous very naughty cat used as an occasional escape route).  Now, Sheba has an obsession with the porch.  If there is any indication of an about-to be-open door- say, Jack goes out to enjoy a delicious Marlboro, or what have you-  Sheba will run out making a particular meow, used only for this situation. Kind of an urgent triple meow.  It has to mean something specific.  Is it simply “Hey, ma, I’m going out now?”  Is it “OMG, now’s my chance to climb down that lilac tree?”  Is it, “proximity to birds is imminent and my dream of burping feathers like Sylvester will finally come to fruition?”  Because, it’s almost like a “wow!  Wow!  WOW!”

 

Somehow Sheba- who was a wild cat in her younger days, and I will never know exactly what all happened to her, except that it involved five adorable kittens (who clearly all had the same babydaddy)- knows the boundary is not to be breached.  This porch has cat-width railings and she could certainly jump if she had the desire.   But when I tell her “No!”  she knows.  I stopped watching her so obsessively too, as she earned my trust; a couple times I even forgot she was out there for a couple hours, and then found her just lying down, in bliss, or curiously sniffing everywhere birds had been- bliss, again; or just rubbing on the railings- all pure, feline, delighted bliss.

 

Marilyn and Sheba- cat PR0N

Half-Siamese, all love.

The  cats have been taking excellent care of me.   Somehow they always know when some feline companionship is most needed.

For all you cat lovers out there, I thought I would show off my babies.  Sheba just came over and sat right next to me.  I swear, they know when I am thinking about catlove.

Glamour girl Marilyn.

 

Loud, live, and local- and “Pity Party” revisited

Saturday was the first day in two weeks that I spent any amount of time functional and upright. There were two music events that I really wanted to catch, knowing that they would lift my spirits and require little physical exertion. Going to both was the right choice. It was a tiring evening, but so worth it.

The first was a Gospel music event held at one of the many churches I used to attend. Three groups “performed” (although I hate that word when it comes to praise music; it has such an egotistical connotation). It was powerful. I wept. I knew so many of the people there- and had to explain my injury and my cane about 30 times, but it gave me an excuse to say “No hugs!” (lest I break into vicious muscle spasm!) I tried to sing along to the songs that were so familiar to me, and choked up every time. Eventually, I realized (now, this concert was at the church where the pastor had told me that I was having a pity party)- that I was, indeed, at that very moment in time, having my very own pity party. It was a humbling moment. He may have hurt my feelings then- and definitely did not help me spiritually at that previous vulnerable moment- but sometimes words have a way of showing their meaning at a much later- and more appropriate- time.

Please do keep in mind that at that point I had been out of commission for two weeks that included my birthday. I had managed a calm optimism and problem-solving skills, and actually enjoyed the freedom to write things with the disinhibition that only valium can provide- but the day before this concert, I just finally broke. I melted down completely, having hit the limit of what I could bear. The previous afternoon my old suicidal ideations had came back with a vengeance. Being currently physically incapable of my standby “plan and means,” I started to look with different intent at my three pill bottles, so handy, so full, such a perfect handful. But how would I get myself into my Marilyn Monroe gown, so that I could shit all over it, in a perfect final “F**k You!” (Elastic waist pants and a t-shirt- the same ones for days and days and days (some days unable to even get that on)- then suddenly the formal gown that I was saving for Russ Feingold’s big Inaugural Ball when he finally gets elected President? That certainly would look suspicious… besides, I’d like to be an organ donor when the time comes.

But something happened at the gospel music festival. There was such power in the words- in the music- such faith emanating from the singers; it was palpable, electric. I am getting teary-eyed again just writing this. Such love and care from all the diverse and wonderful people I’ve worshipped with over the years-– some who have had it way worse than I have, coupled with amazing worship music- brought me out of the pity party, into the real party: the party everyone there was planning for, the one with trumpets and angels and Christ’s triumphant return.

After I got in a needed a couple-hour nap, Jack joined me for the always-amazing (and full of existential angst himself) Mark Mallman. The sound in the club was terrible, but the performance was energetic and just…amazing. I spoke with him at the merch table- he was selling his own merch and being friendly to each and every fan who came out. He is one of the musician I aspire to be like. He sings from the heart: from brutal honesty, from pain, from joy- from real life.

Today a dear longime friend called, encouraging me to seek some professional help (not from professional musicians; although as stated above, that is excellent therapy as well) and we had one of the best conversations possible: she showed me the angry love that I needed to hear. She shared her gift of self. She shared her personal trials and listened to mine- she showed me how God couldmaybe- just maybe- be using me for something bigger than myself. I have some ideas. I have some new plans- not to off myself- but for a new project or two that’s been percolating in my brain for months, and suddenly taking on a form, a shape, and a whole new life.

 

Stay tuned.