Shades

Whilst I do believe that colour does not beat the starkness of a black and white photograph I do have difficulty liking those who paint the world in black and white. Those who indulge in generalizing instead of taking their magnifying glasses to the particular.

Yes, the general and the particular. What a marvellous subject. Lending itself to all FACETS of life. Today, going the way of least resistance, I shall focus on the soft subject of dog and cat lovers.

Please note that I said ‘and’ NOT ‘versus’. There is no law to say that you have to be either or. Or can’t be both. Sure, we may have affinities. Men, mice. Some even keep hamsters. A friend and neighbour of mine used to. I can’t say I loved them (I loathe anything on a treadmill) but they were living things (not that they knew it) so I looked after them when friend was on holiday. Even when friend was not on holiday I’d get those blasted things over to my garden and let them chew the grass. I’d have preferred a sheep or a goat but friends can’t be choosers.

If I were technically as adept as all of you I’d now attach to this post a photo of my fifteen months old self and Pongo. Pongo was my first body guard, an Alsatian. Sitting, at my side and on his hind, taller than me. And yes, the picture is black and white. Which is just as well because Pongo’s fur was black and it was midwinter and the snow was very very very white.

Where were we? Cats and dogs. Animals. By temperament I’d say I prefer cats, for purely selfish reasons. Cats want nothing from you. They give (not least half dead prey put at your feet as a sign of affection) but that’s about it. Dogs? Dogs are takers. They – not by desire, by default – may look at you as the leader of the pack. Don’t let yourself be flattered so easily. As leader of the pack you are looked upon to provide. PROVIDE. Like what? Fun, entertainment, and, naturally, food. You are at their beck and call. And those eyes. Those EYES. Pleading, needy. That’s ok. I don’t mind pleading, needy, that’s what makes dogs human. But, for heaven’s sake, there is that never ending sorrow in a dog’s eyes. It’s why, and please shoot me now, why I firmly believe that those prone to the metaphorical black dog on your shoulder should not keep dogs. Keep a cat – if you must have a pet – instead. Cats are affectionate to the point of suffocating (me) yet they never expect you to throw a stick. And to reciprocate I never expect them to fetch it [the stick].

As an aside and whatever you do: Do not keep a gold fish. They are soul destroying (their own and yours).

Hugs and hisses,

U

Zen

Dearest Sweetest Hearts, and arseholes who too read my pourings and too lazy to say what you have to say, let’s assume that I have lived three thirds of my alloted time (loose roof tiles and car accidents notwithstanding): I am on the home stretch. Which is NOT sad. What is sad, and I can’t forgive myself, that I can’t leave passion, fire in my innards behind. I wish I were … I don’t know … indifferent. That’s it. Indifferent. Fuck most things, little touches me. Bliss. I am indifferent. Fat chance. The grail. I so wish, I so wish … what does it take to become a true Stoic, someone I define as not to be touched by anything (at least on the surface)? It ain’t going to happen.

In fact it’s so bad I am running a parallel blog. Not physically. In my mind. That blog is so full of venom, useful venom, truths you can only dream of. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the what’s it of them all? Close contest. Most people are tender little plants. To name but two, the biblical Rachel and the Samaritan John of fanny flannel fame (which I find vaguely offensive since he is gay). That I haven’t ripped them apart in their blogs’ constant snivelling is a miracle only attributable to my upbringing, natural tact and that I don’t want them to set Sicilian bulldogs onto me. As long as amusement is mine, and it is, I shall keep that lid on my steam.

Thank you to all of you who gave thought to my last post’s lament. That I am still under the weather after last Sunday’s storm is an understatement. I lost a week in a haze of trying to reconcile reality with my concept (and expectation) of the world. I sometimes wish, indeed pray, I were different (entirely selfish because “different” in this context only means my less hurt/bleeding. Peace).

Slight reprimand to Jean whose riposte to Looney I found a little waspish: Looney is a learned man, Jean. I wouldn’t mind playing squash with him because I’d know from the outset I’d be in the corner by the end of it. Yes, Looney, in the wake of Epictetus you reminded me of an anecdote (same school – Zenos and Chrysippus) and since Jean is fond of dogs maybe appealing, and reconciling, to her too, and chiming in with your, Loony, mentioning the fates:

“The Stoics had an image with which to evoke our condition as creatures, at times able to affect change, yet always subject to external necessities: We are like dogs who have been tied to an unpredictable cart. Our leash is long enough to give us a degree of leeway, yet not long enough to let us wander wherever we please.”

U

 

 

 

 

Jackson Pollock

Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:

“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.

…

If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page

This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.

For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”

 

To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:

“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.

Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.

I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”

U