Forgive me for this post. I am a glass or two of red wine into the evening.
I have been very busy the last couple weeks, plugging away at doing what I have to while trying to scrape enough time together to do what I want to.
Whoa... there's something in that statement. Why do we put ourselves through doing something we hate? Surely there are enough people in this world to sufficiently cover each and every interest and field sufficiently. Accountants for instance come to the fore of my mind when I make this statement. I would loath being an accountant. I could do it, I have the acuity and the acumen. Why would I want to do it? I hate the thought. It is not natural to me. It's not a fit.
I love the idea of what I do now. I snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat. I develop critical minds out of little but primordial ooze. I make a working system out of chaos
But I don't get the satisfaction of standing back and watching a universe of my own creation.
If you have ever played Sim City you can identify. You reach a point where all you want to do, at least for a little while, is sit back and watch your beautiful and unique creation. A creation you grew from nothing but potential and made distinct and singular. There will never be one like it.
It doesn't matter that it isn't real.
What I do is real. Real awful.
Tomorrow, I have to make a scapegoat out of someone who legitimately tries his best. He is a good man. He plugs away with verve and puts one foot in front of the other with practiced patience and even-handedness.
Someone possessing fewer positive attributes (and much less motivation for betterment of self and others) came along and created a moment in time that will force me to decommission my good man.
And so it goes. Another day another chip off my humanity. Another odious errand to be run at the behest of a bigger god than myself. A god more ignorant than malevolent but somehow the malevolence manages to shine through.
Just because you can do something does not mean you should. This is a lesson I have learned slowly over time. I am very good at what I do. I can do it. But should I?
Going back to the point, (there is one, dear reader), isn't there some person out there pining for my job? Isn't there someone within the general proximity who is sitting at home right now blogging how he wishes he could knock some nice guy down a peg or two just to see his face? Isn't there some lackey who gets turned on by the thought of sycophantically following an evil overlord in a hellish maelstrom of constantly recycling terror and looking that devil in the eye and saying "I will, master... gladly"?
And isn't there a job out there where I can say "good job, you can do it!", or "I am proud of what you did today and you should be, too"?
I submit, dear reader (note the fact I am referring to you in the singular and I assume I am overestimating your number) that there is something out there for each of us. Something that will make us happy and wealthy if only in spirit. Don't stop fighting. Don't stop hoping. Just don't stop.
I would rather have lived for my purpose in the last minute of my life than to never have lived for my purpose at all.
Wow This is good wine.
On the lighter side:
We adopted a stray cat a couple weeks ago. Named KiKi by our niece, Skylar because we assumed she was, well, a she.
Surprise! It's a man, baby!
The name KiKi never sat well with me. All my cats (they're stacking up like cord wood) have been named at least loosely after literary characters. I admit, this happened as an accident. Why stop now?
It started with Ophelia. She was not so much my cat as she was my ward. I was a long-term surrogate patent for a friend of mine who was in a traveling mistral show. I took her because we had an instant connection. She was a gorgeous orange long hair tiger with wonderful markings. She was terribly possessive of me. One day, studying on my bed with my girlfriend in college, the cat walked in and looked us over. My girlfriend reached over, grabbed my arm and said "mine", to which the cat replied with a great hiss, a flourish and an about-face out of the room.
She liked to ride in the flat sculpted out area of my car's dashboard. She was content to some with me everywhere. She never left my side.
My friend reclaimed her at the end of his stint. I found out he ended up giving her away to another family. It's too bad I didn't say so, but I would gladly have kept her. She was wonderful. It turns out a lot better than the girlfriend.
Then Juliette, a shelter kitty who had me at hello 8 years ago and still has me today. I love that cat to an embarrassing extent. She is a joy. I can say no more. I could write pages about her, but it would fail utterly to examine the true love I have for that cat.
Montague stayed with us a short time but did not want to become a productive member of the family. He was another orange long-hair and a good bloke. He sat on my chest and begged for (and nearly always received) the dregs of my beer bottles. He lapped at them like a hamster laps at his water bottle.
Alas, he was a snappish, brooding bully who could not get along with Juliette and Felix.
One day, running late for work I heard a sound unlike any I ever heard. I went to it, whereupon I came across "Monty" jetting a column of shit behind him and looking at me like he had been planning this maneuver for the perfect time... and that time was now.
He needed to be vanquished. He was. And in so doing, I gained the eternal affection of his shelter mate Felix who we had also adopted.
Felix was a skinny little gutter cat. Named by the shelter after "Felix the Cat" of cartoon fame, he was a beautiful tuxedo. A feral cat, Felix moved in and settled down to a life of leisure. Felix gained two thousand pounds in the first six months he was with us.
He did the full Brando. We called him "Boom Boom" because of the sound he made when he walked. Floorboards lived in fear of this cat. He was a grumpy irascible git who loved me above all else. He was more like me than any animal I have known. apologetically himself. If you didn't like it, tough.
He was wonderful with children, and patient, too. I couldn't touch his back half without fear of great reprisal in the form of teeth and claws... not so kids. He withstood the love (abuse) of many with gentle good humor.
He passed away suddenly for no good reason 9/9/09. He left a hole the size of his prodigious body in our home.
And then this July comes KiKi out of the greenery at the edge of the lawn where Felix rests. This lovable scamp who just made himself at home.
But, as you can see, KiKi is not a royal name for a cat who will be revered and treated better than most humans who come to my home.
No, this regal cat of great kindness and gentility tempered with an air of strength and wit is an Atticus. Like Atticus Finch himself, he is relaxed and confident and looks at you as if to say, "It's not time to worry yet", just like his literary namesake.
Whatever kismet brought us this animal, thank you. We will not look upon this gift lightly.
No comments:
Post a Comment