Ode to Becel

Kittycats.

They'll be perfectly content to snooze on your lap; and then they'll jump off, stroll into another room, and start caterwauling. Non-stop crying, it would tear out the hearts of the dead.

So you follow them to see what's wrong.

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~ & you're thinking: are they hurt? ~ are they complaining about old, achey, arthritic joints? ~ are they giving vent to some stoically suffered chronic pain? ~ what are they trying to tell me?

~ are they lonely? ~ how can they be lonely? ~ I was right there, and they left.

.

Just before you come in, they stop; and when you look at them as if to say ~ what's wrong?

they look back at you as if to say ~ did you hear that sound? ~ I heard it too.

.

So you give them a little scritch, and through slitted eyes they seem to say:

~ooop ~ wait a minute ~ are those shoulders? ~ without a cat on them? ~ I'm supposed to be perched on those shoulders.

And !Allez Up! they go.

~ it's a darn good thing you came by. they say, your shoulders could use a cat.

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Sometimes I think what they're singing is an Ode to Becel (as in the margerine commercials). The point seems to be to get me up off the couch, walking around, & doing something ~ something like, oh, I don't know, pumping kittycat weights, maybe.

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~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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*Or, they're all over each other like Mexican professional wrestlers... we want to give the kitties appropriate stage names, but we don't speak Spanish... so they're stuck with names like La Mamacita Grande! El Dulce! and El Pollo Loco!

Situate Oneself:

At the office I have a portable phone that permits me to take calls when I'm away from my desk. Usually the phone itself is left tucked in my pocket, and I speak and listen via an earpiece with a mike attached.

It was, in hindsight, inevitable that this day should have come to pass:

~ I told Boss, so&so wants to speak to you on line one;

~ Boss took the earpiece from me;

~ started talking;

~ turned around;

~ and walked away, while I trailed behind like a kite tail, still connected by the earpiece cord.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

I'd like to say Boss was oblivious to me trailing along behind; but to be honest, I'd have to describe it as a conscious exercise of Boss' perogative to have me follow in tow {if you've ever seen the movie Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead ~ the scene where R&G meet King Claudius and his royal retinue ~ then you've seen what this looks like}.

It put me in mind of behaviour at the court of Versailles {you know, Dangerous Liasons, Louis the Sun King, "let them eat cake" and all that} ~

If Oneself was of sufficiently noble birth {or "aspired" to it} then Oneself would retain a chair-carrying servant whose job was to ensure said chair was always convenient for the seating of Oneself. Etiquette dictated Oneself never glanced for the chair; Oneself simply sat. And the chair was Expected To Be There. Looking for reassurance beforehand betrayed self-doubt about Oneself's Regal Position {literally and figuratively} ~ and if Oneself had doubts, then what was everyone else to think?

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

They must have had a name for their position, these chair servants. I'll send my Footman, Oneself might say, just leave it with my Valet; the Butler will see you to the door. And mind you don't stumble over my Chair-Lackey on the way out.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

I can't help but think that nobles who survived the revolution had to unlearn the lessons of a lifetime, and spent quite a few weeks with bruised bottoms from plopping down on non-existent chairs, and then spent a few more weeks with pillows strapped to their behinds.

A little-known short-lived cottage industry, commoners teaching nobles how to seat themselves; I can just hear them, like training dogs the Barbara Wodehouse Way, enunciating the "T": Sit!

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

SitComedy of Manners. Will somebody, please ~ my writing skills are not up to snuff ~ please write this reversal of Pygmalion?

It must include {1} a scene wherein Oneself is subjected to a difficult lesson in chair management & attitude re-adjustment, and {2} a scene wherein Oneself, amongst commoners for a test run after the first set of lessons, must sit down several times; in some instances Oneself overcompensates, and in other instances Oneself remembers only half-way down to look for the chair which upon occasion is there, or isn't there, or isn't quite where expected; and Oneself must pretend accordingly that Oneself meant to do so...

{Many ex~nobles masquerading as citizens in post~revolutionary France were caught out because they sucked at Musical Chairs. Not a lot of people know that.}

Please also include scenes wherein Oneself must acclimatize to life without {1} the farthingale ~ and so tries to sweep impressively through rooms though feeling practically naked, and goes through doors sideways for no apparent reason ~ {2} the fan ~ and so substitutes any item at hand as a psycological crutch, as a smoker would for cigarettes ~ & {3} the wig ~ and so... well... I don't know how that would be funny... like I said, not up to snuff.

As Eliza was rewarded with chocolates, so Oneself would be rewarded with Oneself's head remaining on Oneself's shoulders... and constantly reminded of same, by some Madame DeFarge-derivitive dropping sharp~edged hints like: ooo, where did I put my knitting, I'll lose my own head next ~ oh! dearie me ~ did I say that out loud? titter titter.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

There ought to be potential for moments of tender & touching vulnerability when one is stripped of one's social & personal affectations, and for moments of broad farce when one must cope with a new physical situation. And for lots of dignified~people~falling~on~their~butts humour.

I'm not making any promises: no gift have I for writing dialogue, comedic or otherwise; nor have I the skill for sketching characters or plot. The impetus is slipping away already, and I haven't the discipline to write when I've lost interest in the idea.

But who knows what may happen. We shall see what we shall see.

~~ it's a concept ~~

Can I pay for your intellectual property with the sound of my money?

Unfortunately, my money is also just a concept: what is the sound of one coin rubbing together?

In the spirit of keeping an eye on things*, I ought to investigate how to post a line graph or thermometer chart which monitors the relative water level of my bank accounts versus the plimsoll of my cost of living. I'd call it "The Hand~To~Mouth Index" and use it to inspire myself to do better...

.

* yakka, yakka, yakka.

* wakka, wakka, wakka.

Between Easters

The non~orthodox paschal weekend was spent messing around the home & garden, which is to say, I made as much mess as I tidied ~ so while I haven't entirely fallen behind in the ever-present struggle against household entropy, I haven't gotten at all ahead either.

Though, according to the Four Laws {count 'em: 0, 1, 2 & 3} of Thermodynamics ~~

~~ {0} I: {1} can't win, {2} can't break even, & {3} can't get out of the game.

So: mess is inevitable; tidying, futile; & just when I'm dead and think that's the end of it, this "fortuitous concourse of atoms" will, having shed any pretension to coherence, spend the afterlife as an ungodly mess {at least from my posthumous perspective}.

Spring cleaning will only stave off the ultimate heat death of the universe by infinitesimal dribs & drabs {worth mentioning if only because it makes the current state of my kitchen seem reasonable & decent by comparison}.

Now I've got a ditty stuck in my head:

I got algorythym,
I got physics,
I got pascal,
Who could postulate anything more?

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

The ~orthodox paschal feast I hope to spend with the common~law in~laws. I'm looking forward to it; they are always pleasant company.

}~{ }~{ }~{

Hmmm.... I'm a bit link-happy today...

Mesopotamian Woman, Got Away From Me

Ages upon ages ago, I devoted a small portion of my education to studying Mesopotamia. I couldn't win a multiple~choice quiz show with what little I remember of it now; but it was an utterly enjoyable experience.

When I heard of the art museum looting, I could appreciate the loss on an academic level; but it didn't touch me on a gut level.

It hit me this morning, when a human face was put on it.

This morning I checked out the only detailed catalogue of the museum online, provided by The Art Newspaper.

(If you choose to peruse it, be aware that as of this posting some of the descriptions and images have been mismatched; it seems as if two columns of text on a page are occasionally switched here & there.)

She is the first image of the Sumerian section of the catalogue. She was the first image projected upon the screen in the first class wherein I studied Eastern Art.

It was impressed upon us, when first we saw her, that she was the most important one to remember, and that everything else would be anti-climactic. She would most definitely, we were told, be on the slide-recognition test of final exam; and so she was. She was the first slide, in fact.

"White marble head of a Sumerian woman, considered to be one of the finest works of ancient sculpture, from Warka, datable to 3000 BC ."

I would have very much liked to have gone to see her; but alas... she has been liberated.

I'm still going through the online catalogue; but appears that the bulk of the examples cited either in textbooks or by my professor were housed in that museum. So most of the things I have studied are gone, or have at least dropped out of sight 'semi-permanently'.

The closest I will ever get to them will be the closest I remain to them:

A group* of us studying Museum Curation went on a few field trips to various cities. At the University of Chicago we visited the Oriental Institute Museum, which specializes in eastern antiquities.**

I saw this lamassu there, who is a companion to their lamassu; wonder whether anyone managed to cart that one away.

The original is still in the Louvre; but I saw a reasonable facsimile of their reasonable facsimile there.

There were other things, but sadly, the memory needs to be jogged more often these days. Exercise, exercise, exercise.

I will have to go over old notes and try to remember what I have lost.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

* What is the collective noun for a group of art historians? A smattering? A dabble? ~~ that would be more appropriate for artists, as in "a dabble of Sunday painters". An appreciation, or an appraisal, perhaps? Or better yet ~ a footnote?

**The translated bits of preserved writings were especially fascinating. I haven't been able to find the one that was my favourite at the time; either I am looking in the wrong collection, or it was part of a temporary exhibition, or it's since been proved a fake. It was a letter from a student to his parents, guilting them for more money: "Fred's parents give him loads of nice things, even though he's only adopted, they love him more than you love me!" or words to that effect.

Proserpina, Daily

My headspace at work and my headspace at home divide me into two such totally different entities that trying to send reminders from one self to the other is like trying to pass communiques through the veil of the dead.

At home I tell myself, when I am at work I should do such&such; at work I tell myself, when I get home I should do such&such. These intentions evaporate like a volatile spirit from the body at the point of crossing over.

It's a bit like forgetting why you came into a room, and then forgetting that you've forgotten but suddenly being conscious of a total lack of purpose; and then, eventually remembering that you've forgotten and unable to remember why you came into the room, having to return to the other room to jog your memory. And then going back and forth between the two rooms unable to remember anything from the other side.

Except in this case the two rooms are my home and my office, and it happens every day.

Lesser Known Quasimodos

I don't know how we got on the subject, but somehow we melded the worlds of "I Love Lucy" with "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" and got:

Looocy! Sanctuary!

Riiiickyyy! *sob* I wanna ring the bells...

It ends up with Ethel & Lucy trying to prove they can ring the bells,
and pulling the usual slapstick schtick with the bell ropes.

Loooocy... you got some ecumenical 'splainin' to do...

The half that wasn't there.

There is new sign posted over the sink in the kitchen on the first floor. It reads:

Be Careful With Knives.
They Are Sharp.

I think that's half a Haiku.

oomph

Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it whispering, "grow ~~ grow!"

~~~ The Talmud

Oh, yes, I have to water my plants, and make sure they get enough light to eat, and otherwise nourish them occasionally; and maybe I might have give some extra thought and attention to a plant that isn't thriving.

But the oomph for growing is not energy that comes from me. And yet it feels like I've accomplished something by "growing" them ~~ when in fact, a} they grow themselves, and b} the real accomplishment is that so far I've prevented myself from accidentally killing them.

I get so ridiculously excited when I see a sprout, be it either one that has sproinged out of the earth in less than week or one that has taken forfreakin'ever to germinate. I'll call my boyfriend over and point in amazement at a two-inch seedling that miraculously appeared that evening in a pot which that very morning had been empty, or draw his attention to the tiny fleck of bourgeoning green which was the sole vital spark to emerge from a sowing I'd given up on. And I'll say, "look! They're growing!" And he'll say, "yes. They do that. That's what they do."

I'm in awe of that oomph, especially when I think of the amount of oomph I have to expend to live my life. I get so fatigued so easily; I'd love to know where these little seeds get their oomph from.

I've a notion that if I nuture the germination of enough seeds, then perhaps somehow I'll be able to comprehend how they do it, and do it myself. I'll recapture my lost youth and restore my vital energy; my wrinkles will be smoothed away and my skin imbued with a newborn softness; my every inbreath will draw on the zephyrs of spring and every outbreath will be a divine sigh into the nostrils of carbon-dioxide consuming greenery.

But the most likely scenario is that I'll just end up with with a lot of herbs and veggies. Seedlings grow into plants, and I am already scrambling to find room for them all. Some are getting too tall for their shelves; and some are getting too big for their pots, a state which my mum describes as "needing a new pair of shoes." But it's not past the last frost date yet, so I can't just shove 'em outside.

Perhaps it is time to investigate how cold frames & hot beds work.

They tell us that plants are not like man immortal, but are perishable ~~ soul~less. I think that is something that we know exactly nothing about.

~~~ John Muir (1838-1914), Journal, Autumn 1867

WMD 404

Error message.

Virtual ER: Feline Triage

Only you can save Tigger & Fluffy!

... not so easy being a vet now is it?

It's actually harder to become a vet than a doctor. It requires at least as many years of training; it requires one to be conversant with several species; and since the scant few institutions which teach veterinary medicine have a higher proportion of applicants than the numerous institutions which teach human medicine, it requires one to to be more academically competitive.

... but if you want to swot up, you can find info on feline health at:

~~ the mother of all feline-health link pages: Cat Fanciers Website, Feline Veterinary Links.

~~ not to be confused with CFA (Cat Fancier's Association) Caring for Cats page: Feline Health Articles and Research Progress Reports.

~~ the FAB (Feline Advisory Bureau): Information Sheets.

~~ Cornell University, Veterinary Medicine Dep't: Client Information Brochures.

~~ Pawprints and Purrs: Cat Health Information by Condition or Disease.

~~ VetInfo: Encyclopedia of Feline Veterinary Medical Information.

~~ if you prefer an holistic approach, there is also AltVetMed.

**In no way are the above links meant to replace a visit to your vet. If you are concerned about the health of your cat, please consult a professional at once.**

Oh ~ and let's not forget to mention, It shouldn't Happen To A Vet ~ because everybody who ever mulled over becoming a vet got a copy of James Herriot's books, so why shouldn't you? Did you know he has an official museum, and was awarded an OBE? Services to Veterinary Literature, I suppose...

Eine Kleine Caffeine

Gardeners should be known as java-slinging, joe-swilling coffee-drinkers they are, not as the earth-mother herbal-tea-drinkers that popular myth would have you believe.

Strike Match Here

If you have a sublimated desire to, you should excuse the expression, buy the farm, then this may be the strike strip to the safety match of your id:

"Self-Sufficiency in Style" has got everything: scandal, intrigue, love, death, money, veterinarians, the SAS & HRH, family values, gardening, husbandry, and sex involving a raddle & crayon.

~ { & } ~ { & } ~ { & } ~

I'd been putting off linking to "Self-Sufficiency in Style" until I could also post pics of how my own nursery is coming along (very well, thank-you for asking).

Inspiration to go just ahead and post it came when (quite serendipituously) I ran across an urban gardening blog which had quoted from it... which makes this a bandwagon, so jump on board and get your Garden Hoe T-Shirt & Undies here.