Sex, Food and Meowing

Yes, all that from my kitchen window.

Tonight I had the joy [ahem] of seeing a typical feline copulation ritual. Plain white-and-grey tom-cat on black backalley-cat. Nothing too spectacular but the cacophony of loud sounds issuing from such tiny creatures. I turned away respectfully.

Only the rampaging tom-cat, I presume, had not ended his conquest. A mere hour later, one could hear the same rude concerto coming from the street corner. I was getting annoyed by the symphony and once again opened the window to my back yard. There, I found a beautiful cat - a Siamese beauty, with long tresses and eyes that [gave me the creeps and] glowed red in the light of my kitchen. It's raining heavily; I begin to pity my Siamese friend, and scavenge the refrigerator for a tiny piece of fish. Found! Thrown. Ignored.
"You little...!"

But the cat doesn't even turn to pretend to hear my indignation. No, she is staring at a fixed point somewhere down the street. There you have it, ladies and gentleman: live porn for felines. [A.K.A. the loudly rampaging tom-cat]
Okay, so I understand a feline has needs, but come on, people! I'm throwing expensive food at a cat who's been parading my garden wall for about an hour! In the rain! Practically begging for nourishment and comfort! You're seriously telling me you'd pick porn over food? Over warmth?
What if there's a nice side to it? What if the cat chose to escape from reality, into whatever illusion was before her? What if, for a second, she was more than a cat begging for food in the rain? A dream, her dream, her ideal. Maybe she wasn't really watching the live show. Maybe she was seeing sunshine, daisies and pretty little rainbows in her fantasy tom-cat's eyes. More than a cat. More than a beggar, more than hungry, more than sad and droopy. Maybe she had to choose between black, wet reality and painless fantasy. She chose the reality of her imagination; she chose to dream rather than to eat. She chose her heart, rather than her stomach.

Illusion over need? Mind over bulk? Essence over matter? Soul over body?

Apparently, felinity gives you that luxury.

["Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'
Birds singin' in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me."]

Windsor Wind or Why Not Be?

Ahem, Ophelia, darling. Hamlet is gone cuckoo. Deal or get dealt, so I say.

[There was a girl; a very strange, enchanting girl. And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this she said to me:

"My guy is jaded. Beat that."]

I ask you, wasn't it so perversely masculine and overbearing of Mr William Shakespeare to create such a character as our friend Ophelia here? What better a way to dissipate his own guilt ["Honey, I know I haven't been all here this week, but look, you're my new character in a play!"] playing the Creator of this weak, tormented figure?
Shakespearean-ly enough, our pretty Ophelia loses all: lover, brother, father, dignity and capacity to breathe. Not necessarily in that order. Feminist question: what the hell?
I mean, I know Hamlet is supposed to be the one to make us shake with crying, but Ophelia is sure giving him a run for his money. Seriously now, she is the most tragic character to wiggle its lines into the play. Not only does her pristine universe crumble around her, but she uses the will to live, falling into a pit of despair. And not caring. It's so desolately sad to see a person live only through his or her love for others, and have no appreciation for the independence of solace. She was lonely; she killed herself. She did exactly what the famous soliloquy kind of tells people not to. "A sea of troubles..." Anyone for a swim? Thing is [this post is born out of frustration] it is both tug-on-your-hair frustrating as well as enchantingly fairy-tale-like to dream of such a [leechy] complete love. It is not only prejudicial to make Ophelia kill herself, because it assumes she depended solely on Hamlet, but it is also a degrading supposition as to the nature of a human being. When the going gets tough, Ophelia drowns herself. Women in love have no willpower, no strength, no depth beyond their affections. They, if alone, start brooding and planning their own deaths meticulously. "Honey, I'm home!" is what got Wilma out of her suicidal-mode.

Were I [or any sensible woman] carrying Ophelia's name and part in the story, I would have most sincerely told Hamlet to shove it [after crying a wee bit to get the angry bits out so that I could swear gracefully]. If, Hamlet, your personality is that ebbed that even I can't fix you [Coldplay!...Sorry.] then you're off the charts. Hamlet should be the one killing himself over this [take it literally, don't take it literally, I don't care]: the person I love can't fix my sorrow; I see my old man's ghost; my mother is sharing a bed with my uncle. Okay, I need to recite my soliloquy now and decide whether to live and let die or just kick the bucket and turn my back to the world.
Ophelia should be wasting her time reading Truman Capote and smoking cherry-flavoured cigarettes while someone is painting her toes red to hide the deppression. So to all you Ophelias out there who are contemplating suicide [be it physical or sentimental]: sing a Christmas carol, sing a happy-song. Give out free hugs, buy yourself a tiara [Scratch that last one! Twice!], drink a cup of French Vanilla, listen to Oasis, walk the city alone and see the sun filtered through the bare treetops, smile at children and dodgy dogs, feed the pigeons and just enjoy the brief time you have. Let's not all be the shakespearian dream and kill ourselves before we spend enough time alone to know who we are.

One last thing: raise a glass of champagne to "Be".

And smile on. Nothing's bad enough until you die.

P.S.: And when underwater, SWIM, DAMN IT!
P.P.S.: And don't find the above offensive to your deppresion.
P.P.P.S.: Oh, and Mr Shakespeare, I know you're turning in your grave, but I truly meant no disrespect. I just get mean when I'm tired.

Narrow Escape from Sin City

I met someone recently. Let's call them Grim. Grim came up to me and told me how absolutely glorious, unmistakeably marvellous and perfectly heavenly are those movies which depict characters of immesurable selflessness. Tear-jerking, moving to the core. Absolutely perfect. Nothing gets better than watching two and a half hours of selflessness then realising your own mechanism must be wrong because you just don't save the day. Every day.
To me, even if they are wonderful movies, those flicks make too many eyes tear to get to me that much. They present the fact: the bare superiority of a fellow human, an ideal we will never reach. Superhuman kindness, inhuman dedication. Rubbing it in to the poor sinful souls who will [unfortunately] go to hell while you pull jokes with the archangels. I admire the portrayed kindness, but it cannot be something I relate to. I am, we all are, imperfect. And that a demi-god is born every ten years to make a miracle happen...That's serendipity.
Moreover, concentrating solely on the values of humanity...people, that alone isn't right. We're dark, twisty and murky as well as bright, shiny and merry: we deserve to be treated as such. Complicated, difficuly, beautiful in all our humanity. No more pristine souls, it is not who we are. We'd be selling lies.
Grim moved on to the subject of books. "Lolita", to name but one literary atrocity, was an abominable sin of Nabokov's. Horrible intellect had he who could devise such a story about obsession, sexuality, desire...Ugh! That is not the kind of movies one must see! We get enough muddy souls in our day-to-day lives. Who needs movies about malice, lust, greed and all those things which make us so invariably human?

[Or maybe Grim suffered from a disease whose symptoms consist of severe narrowing of the brain/mind.]

How much can you hate your own race that you want its reality out of your house, mind and DVD player? How can you deny and reject the very things that comprise your essence as a human being? Sins and thankfulness, joy and sorrow, lust and love - part of me, part of you, part of the Grimmest person ever to exist.

P.S.: She forgot all about Lolita's redemption. Ha-ha.

Osama. Obama? Your Momma.

It was only natural that I wrote about the big event of the year [so far]. Yes, the US have a new president. Guess what so special about him. He's coloured.
I admit, I never actually thought he'd win, but the American people surprised me[ for once!] and actually elected him. Albeit it's a step forward, electing a president different from all the others in the past [however respectable they were] is just a [national] cry for help. Barack Hussein Obama resresents their lifeline, their hope that something will be different in the future. No one can blame these people for wanting change [Clinton? Bush?!], but I am still mesmerized by the fact that someone with such a profile was elected. [Not that I'm complaining.] He's black, which means I have to nod in approval to the people who voted. His name is Hussein [anyone remeber a guy Saddam a few years back?]Obama [Call me crazy, but dunnit sound like Osama? As in Bil Laden?], but apparently the American people saw through that and picked him over [century-old] McCain [yikes!]. So yes, I'm glad to be able to say [just this once] that I'm happy with how people saw past the heritage and more into his education and behaviour [even though he was not exempt from his fair share of scandals...but whether the scandals will come back as "Watergate Reloaded", only time will tell]. Conclusion: Obama's a pretty dream.
But pleaese-oh-please don't come round telling me he's going to be the one to save the American people ["Once the greatest nation in the world"...a thing to which the economical crisis saw]. Granted, he's not Osama - he pulled out the troops, and brought the change [Yeah, yeah, we know we can!] that needed bringing. He ended something that should have never even been started, and for that I[for one] hold him in respect. But he's not your mother, he's not any sort of divinity and even he can't make the impossible happen - and he won't cradle you in his arms and sing you to sleep. People, you're going to have to help yourselves as well[there's something at the end of your arm which will do most of the job] out of - what is it? - poverty [if that be the case; I'm not looking to offend anyone].

Real conclusion: the new Pres is a much needed breath of fresh air; "bush" is associated with too many malodorous prophanities.

Scream Team

I hereby swear to scream, bellow, shriek, prattle my head off for all eternity. Pour la paix, bien-sur. A blog/clog for my opinions, people, to make the long story short.

"A beautiful sunset that was mistaken for a dawn. "
~~ Claude Achille Debussy

Gr. No. Optimism.

Er...

"Computers are useless. They can only give you answers."
~~ Pablo Picasso.

Funny. But it doesn't help me prove a point.

"Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something."
~~Plato

Better.
Now you're confused.
Mu. Ha. Ha.

Love,
the One-Man-Band