Lion and Magic Boy

There’s a situation here.

It’s more than the Ass Cork Cat: with the purchase of a bag of food costing approximately one rent payment, he’s fine now. Sure, he has to eat this crap for the rest of his life in order to avoid the formation of urinary crystals that apparently feel like peeing knives, but aside from his chagrin at eating The Same Food All The Time, he’s fine. Never better. Fluffy, playing at all hours of the night, fat and happy.

The problem is now his brother, who last month was the picture of sleekness and health while Ass Cork got all scruffy and ungroomed while peeing apparent knives. The brother, never a truly happy cat and always the one who would creep slowly up onto a lap as if he didn’t deserve to be there and would probably be kicked off in a minute anyway, is now doing quite poorly.

The once-sleek black fur is oily and matted. His backbone is painfully evident while his belly is distended. It’s not worms. It’s sadness, and that’s not something curable. Could be a tumor, too, who knows?

And this is the problem. I know that cats have a different view of life than people do. Hell, I know that I have a different view of life than most people. Cats don’t fear death, aren’t bothered by it. But part of me says I should be doing something more for this cat, this cat who has spent countless hours on my lap, who has dug countless holes in my legs with his claws that no one ever taught him were supposed to be sheathed, who has lived his life in fear and uncertainty, even when in a home of love and stability.

I can’t fix him, this traumatized cat. Love won’t fix him, hasn’t fixed him. The vet can do lots of expensive tests for all sorts of things but there is nothing apparent to test for other than a case of sadness. He won’t eat much (though enjoyed some chicken livers just now). He can’t seem to get warm enough, and possesses heat-seeking capabilities. But I no longer want him on my lap. It feels like he wants something, desperately wants something from me, something I can’t provide. It’s like he’s trying to suck my soul out through my lap and I don’t like how it feels. So I push him off, gently, and he looks even more defeated, more sad.

I wish he would die, this cat. He’s sad and I can’t fix him. I love him and it hurts me. I can’t fix him.

Ever-conscious of your delicate sensibilities, I have been sparing you the details of my ongoing search for coffee beans that aren’t burned to a smoking black crisp, rendering them devoid of taste other than of the charred dead remains of what was (presumably) once an actual coffee bean.

Once upon a time, I got my coffee from Whole Foods. This was after a 12-year Coffee-Free-Phase, punctuated by the carefree caffeine-free taint of Several Small Children Inhabiting Parts of My Body for Months At A Time. So after 12 years of this self-denial, I decided to sow a wild oat or two and start drinking coffee again. That’ll teach ‘em! Caffeine denial, PAH! So I went to Whole Foods, got the least-blackened beans they had, went home and ground them and poured hot water over them in my French press, then added sugar and cream and went ahhhh.

Ahhhhh.

That’s the sound of satisfied self-indulgence.

And life was good.

So about a year ago, picking up where I left off but now not as close to Whole Foods, I searched online for Not Burnt Beans and found some. Sumatran! Himalayan! Coffee bliss!

Except, not organic. Not free trade. Not shade-grown. Not guilt-free.

I kept drinking what I had, though, eliminating the sugar and the cream and using rice milk. Still good. Still not burnt.

But the guilt.

So the search.

Undoubtedly you know of at least 11 purveyors of organic free trade shade grown coffees that aren’t burnt to the point of tasting like ass (why is this so hard?), but they are few and far between in my experience.

First place: Yes! We have “light” roast! Give us your money! We are enticing! Look!

Result: ass. Blackened, burnt ass. Liars.

Second place: Yes! Look! Mmm, the aroma, the flavor! “Light”! We can tell you anything as long as we qualify it in quotation marks! Entice! Spend! Give us money!

Result: ass. As a kid, this is what I thought coffee tasted like. Is this what most people drink, this murky bitterness?

Desperate run to the [non-Whole Foods] grocery store: Why? Why do I bother?

Result: A.S.S.

So yesterday I tricked Serena into a Food Procurement Foray, and we stopped at Whole Foods to get chocolate for Nathaniel, organic cream cheese to go with smoked salmon for Matthew, and crackers that are only sold at Whole Foods and why why why do I buy them for Eric.

And at the last minute I remembered that they have coffee there.

This morning, then, this was the sound:

Ahhhhh.

Eric finally likes to read books instead of crumpling them or ripping them. Oh, not read, exactly, but certainly to look at the pictures or comment on them. Unintelligibly, mostly: he says a LOT of words but no one knows what they are, possibly not even Eric.  But there’s a bookshelf of my books upstairs on the landing that has magnetic attraction for him: he loves those books. Loves taking them from the shelf, loves stacking/spreading them on the floor, loves pushing them off the balcony to fall SPLAT below. (I discourage that, but oh well. Try to tell the boy anything.)

But there’s one book, one particular book, that really seems to call to Eric. It’s not too big, not too small. There’s a pleasing abstract pattern on the cover. He likes to slide it under a closed door sometimes, but most often I simply find him lying on his stomach, gently leafing through its pages, studying them. There are no pictures, just words. Only that book. That one book.

The title of this book? Communication Skills in Children With Down Syndrome.

Uh, no, I don’t mean that kind of performance. Sorry.

No, I’m going to whine about writing today. I said before, I’m a writer. Not only is it part of what I do for income, it’s also my main method of self-expression. It’s who I am. Some people tend to express through conversation, but I’ve tended to keep things inside, some emotions actually rendering me practically mute. Yeah, I’m working on it. But expression through the written word has always been a venue for me, has always helped me work through issues or communicate or simply to play.

So writing isn’t the problem.

Nope, it’s time.

I’ve whined about time before, or my perceived lack of it. But in the course of a typical week, I write (usually; I’ve been slacking a bit lately) 20-25 posts at Strollerderby, about 5 here, 2 for Work It, Mom!, and 2-3 for Parentricity. In addition, I have completely slacked in spiritual writing at Springing Light (mainly because thay energy is in large part going toward Matthew and Work It, Mom!, a rather interesting pairing, actually) and haven’t written much at Loving Awareness either (though Matthew writes frequently there, and oh, I won an award for a post there!).

But personal journaling? Ha.

Writing fiction? Nada.

I counsel people all the time about things like finding balance in their lives, yet my own feels strangely askew.

Is this whining?

I mean, isn’t everyone else’s life (everyone but me, of course) easy/effortless/wonderful? And everyone has everything they feel they want/need, right? I’m the ONLY ONE WHO FEELS THIS WAY. I am so alooooooooone!

Right?

Kidding. (sort of)

Anyway, it’s a HUGE drain on creativity to feel you HAVE TO PERFORM. So I am playing with the feeling of unloading some obligations.

But maybe I will put all that on hold just now and go for a walk or something. It’s sunny out.

Yes folks, it’s time for another refreshing round of Cat Quirks, the party game anyone can play. Tonight’s contestants: Shadow (the black one), and Nacho (the black one). Let’s hear it for tonight’s contestants, shall we?

Ahem.

They can hear you clapping, you know. Or rather, NOT clapping (because you don’t think you have to). Cats have really really really good hearing.

I’m serious! They totally can tell!

What, you don’t believe me? Okay, listen to this, then:

…

See? My cats TOTALLY heard that. And you didn’t, right? See???

Okay, whatever. Just don’t think they won’t remember this. But let’s get started anyway.

Oh. What? The object of the game? Right. Okay. I’m going to name some quirks, and all you have to do is guess which cat has the quirk. Easy!

1. WHICH CAT THINKS HE IS A DOG?

A. Shadow

B. Nacho

2. WHICH CAT THINKS HE IS A GROUNDHOG? OR SOME FREAKISH BURROWING ANIMAL?

A. Shadow

B. Nacho

3. WHICH CAT WEIGHS TWICE THE OTHER, YET THEY ARE BROTHERS?

A. Shadow

B. Nacho

4. WHICH CAT DID WE RECENTLY RENAME “NINJA”, BUT IT DIDN’T HELP?

A. Shadow

B. Nacho

5. WHICH CAT HAS A PERSONAL “ZEN ROOM”?

A. Shadow

B. Nacho

All right, then! Let’s tally up the scores, shall we? Consult the answer key to see how you did:

1. A

If you pretend you’re holding something in your hand that looks like a cat toy and then pretend to throw it, Shadow will run after it, looking for the thing you never threw. We have lots of fun at his expense this way.

2. B

Some cats just like it under the covers. Or under sweaters. Or just under.

3. A

It’s not just fur, either.

4. B

We thought giving him a more catly name rather than something covered with melted cheese would help bring out his inner panther. It hasn’t.

5. A

Open a door, any door, and Shadow will run in. Garage? Basement? There he goes! Gallumph gallumph gallumph. Linen closet? (Close the door, I’m meditating.)

SCORING:

1-2 correct: Give it up. You might as well be barking.

3-4 correct: Fish tonight? Or liver?

5 correct: I thought cats couldn’t type! Shadow! Get off my keyboard!

Yesterday I was feeling a bit sad/depressed/overwhelmed/angry (I forget which, exactly), and Matthew suggested I do some energy work with an entity we’ve been working with.

Oh wow, look at that! Your eyes just rolled up inside your head when I said “energy work” and “entity”! That was so cool! Do it again, please?

Okay, let’s just get past that part, shall we? (It only gets weirder from now on anyway)

So I sort of curled up into a fetal position for some reason on the green chair in the livingroom which I hate (the chair, not the livingroom, and said chair WILL GO at some point), and closed my eyes and invited the energy in.

I started seeing something vaguely dreamlike at that point:

For some reason, it was important that I use a sword to cut off my own head. There was, rather understandably I think, some resistence to this, but I knew that in the long run it would be a good thing. Still, the resistance persisted, but after a bit I noticed I was looking down at my severed head rather dispassionately. Someone else, possibly Matthew, appeared at my side and I said, “Look, it’s my head. Huh.” He said, “I know,” and we walked across a little meadow into the edge of a nearby forest together, where we knelt down to look at something precious that was growing there, a tiny plant that bloomed with my face. It was clearly a new version of me that was growing there, and there was an incredible feeling of tenderness toward this small plant, tenderness and good wishes. Around us a number of other people appeared, dancing in the forest. Most of them were also growing from the earth, in various stages of growth and height, and they were all accepting and relatively joyful, acknowedging their place in the world.

Umm…so what does this mean? It seems rather obviously symbolic, yet, is there something more perhaps?

Okay, some questions:

1. Why a sword? A Japanese sword, for that matter (I didn’t mention that part). I can only guess that severing your own head with a sword isn’t easy.

2. What happened to my severed head afterward? And how was it that I already had a new one?

3. Do you know how weird it is to see your head growing out of a plant? And what’s the lifespan of a person-plant? Wasn’t there a movie about this? And why am I reminded of Audrey II?

So the other night, while inwardly writhing with the sort of pain that only the result of Nathaniel or maybe Serena or no, it was probably Eric, having earlier stepped on a crack might bring, I had the pleasure of meeting in real life some people who previously only knew me online.

Including through this blog.

So, was it slightly weird knowing that the people driving the car I was in and therefore were responsible for my well-being and hello! you never know could just randomly drive into a concrete abutment! knew all about, say, the Ass Cork Incidents? Why, yes! About as weird as knowing my mother reads this daily. DAILY, mind you, as long as it is a MondayTuesdayWednesdayThursdayFriday sort of daily, holidays not included. As if I’m not too important to post on holidays!

But lovely people, lovely. No, I mean it!  And I don’t mean “lovely people” like OMG what did I get myself into here??!  And can I escape??!  No, I mean “lovely people” like, wow, so much better in real life!  With hugs and everything! Who I hope to see again (but may have totally screwed that up due to blogging about them).

So here’s a question: is this like the matryoshka dolls? I mean, is there a world-within-a-world-within-a-world here? See, people read my blog. Which is a sort of a world (bear with me here; it is if I say it is, right?). And if I meet them in the outer world, the inner world meets the outer world, which means I can then blog about that outer world back in the inner world.

(I think I took a wrong turn there somewhere, but I REFUSE TO MAKE A U-TURN!)

Lovely people. Did I mention that? (Hi!)

Update on the back thing: after a second trip to the chiropractor, during which she kept muttering things like “cockeyed!” and “wow!”, and a hot bath and some massage and some other massage and some yoga, I can now think more seriously about touching my toes without causing inner convulsions and having to contort my body sideways (“cockeyed!”) in order to, say, put on pants. Or socks. So I have officially moved backward in time from being some 90-odd years old to maybe my 60′s, on a good day, provided I kept myself up all these years. Which I highly recommend, and I plan to get on it soon.

P.S. It is Serena’s birthday today. Yay for 8! However it is a huge indiscretion to attempt to phone her at any time (THE INTERRUPTION! HOW DARE YOU! WHEN I HAVE IMPORTANT TV TO WATCH!), so I will see her tomorrow and there will be cake and a candle that proclaims “8!” and some presents, and then the long long wait a whole nother year for the next one.

Friday morning I bent over to pick up Eric. He was sitting on the kitchen floor in silent protest about having a drink/eating breakfast/getting ready for school, and he beseechingly held his arms up to me with those pleading eyes, and I bent over, grasped him around his midsection, and began to straighten up.

It was then I heard a snap.

Not to mention what I felt.

This is what I said:

“Ow!Ow!Ow!Ow!”

This is what I said (silently):

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!”

And, because I’m like that, I also had thoughts about how ironic it was that I could manifest in such a sudden way my thoughts about burdens and obligations and the identity I’ve assumed all these years blah blah blah.

So I had a visit with my chiropractor, who usually does a nice relaxing Reiki session with yummy-smelling oils made from plants and flowers, and took various pain relievers and did yoga and didn’t feel much better. There was a concern about that snapping sound, and I kept reliving it. I have a whole new understanding about people plagued with back problems; it really does affect EVERYTHING.

So after 5 Tylenol-with-codeines (not all at once), about 3 Motrins, an expensive New York City cocktail I did not pay for, a fair bit of whining and complaining, lots of yoga and a scalding-hot bath, I am better. My brush with death has been averted! Alert the press! Although I have been rendered even more inflexible than before, if possible, so the yoga is going to be with me for awhile.

LESSON: When children reach a weight of 30 lbs and/or can walk, let them.

1. Evidently/apparently

2. Seriously/totally

3. Annoying/annoyed.

Evidently I am annoyed, like, a LOT. Seriously! Apparently I find that totally annoying.

By the way, it’s not like I haven’t been doing ANYTHING lately. I wrote about rest here. And here, I pine whine for balance. Whatever. Oh, and I had something to do with this piece on compassion. And if you’re going to read that, you should read this too, since it’s Part II.

Other than that, it’s been All Croup, All The Time around here. And Nathaniel consumed three chocolate-covered coffee beans yesterday afternoon before inquiring as to what it was he was eating, and was up AT LEAST until 1:30 last night. Er, this morning. And I am out of coffee, which as you can imagine is a Dire Situation, one that requires Immediate Correction. Oh, and today was Wacky Wednesday at Serena’s school and she went to school with her hair in three ponytails, one hanging down over her face and two with pencils stuck in them.

And then she asked if anyone would notice.

Item: same brand/type contact lens solution.

Item: practically the same prescription.  Eerie!

Item: the aforementioned.

I mean, seriously, what other criteria can there be that are as meaningful?

I awoke at 3:30 this morning to the sound of Eric’s sudden aquisition of croup. This is NOT my preferred way to wake up, and the time left something to be desired as well.  I spent an hour holding him semi-upright so he could start breathing again, but I never quite got back to sleep. This morning he’s quite hoarse but is otherwise in decent condition, though I kept him home from school anyway (judgment call since he wasn’t eating and was instead reclining semi-comatose with his head on the kitchen table).

But lying on the couch watching “Curious George” isn’t a terrible way to spend a morning when you’re four, and hey, time to post! Which you may have noticed I haven’t been doing much of!

Though I may soon suggest to Eric that he write my posts while I lie on the couch, since he was the one who slept last night.