With great sadness, I confess that there are no new kitten pictures to share with you today. I assure you, we shall marshal onward for a full seven more weeks and, should I catch a glimpse of either cat on the horizon, I will assuredly share those visions with you.
Whether you care to or not.
But I do have news.
The rest of the family has accepted my submission of the names Grendel for the standard classic tabby norsk skogkatt (Norwegian forest cat) kitten and Grímnir for the piebald tabby norsk skogkatt kitten. Gren and Grimm for short, which ties in with the general fantasy/monster theme of our other cats.
windswept the fells
hard sleet to snow
set to drifts
i wander, wonder
of flames set to cold
A rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is hagalaz, which has a core meaning of “hail”, which was associated with potential, transformation, renewal and change; hail is imagined a seed from which change will arise. Hagalaz is also seen as representative of things beyond our control: a clash between fire and ice.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
Yeah, we will go out with a bang. This is probably the last time I do this, so I elected to do it in style and agreed (after much pestering and cajoling) to get both of the kittens we were eyeballing.
As a reward, I was given pictures and a decent discount on the adoption price. These two pictures of fifteen were the only ones she felt were worth sending, but I’ll take them because these little guys are really shining in the photos.
Perhaps Zen is when you realize that all words are superfluous and find yourself listening to jays cussing at crows, watching cats watch chipmunks, feeling the unseasonable cool air chill bare calves as it drifts through from patio door to window, the taste of coffee on your tongue, that chipmunk chirping back at the cats.
It is that moment that something clicks and you realize this is just it.
Get up, eat breakfast. Tomorrow we will add work to the mixture. Chop wood, carry water — as the old wisdom goes.
Today there is no writing that is wanting to be written for poetry, nor the tale I am telling mostly to myself. There is no music to be chased. Text one daughter or her twin, ask if the parent doing her sleepover at a friend’s house would mind terribly if I showed up closer to 11 instead of 10.30 because my last daughter will want a ride to job she hates and refuses to replace so she only has to pay for Uber one way. I’m still trying to figure out how her transportation woes are my own.
Still… Chop wood, carry water. Just doing. because doing is all that we can know. We pretend we know what has happened and what will come, but we know neither very well. When you really examine it, now is all we know and it is gone before we can even ponder it.
I love my cats, even when they drive me bonkers. That, for the record, is 99% of the time.
As I noted just over a week ago, we lost one of our Maine Coons prematurely. She was only seven years old, diagnosed with kidney concerns about a year ago, but nothing more than “warning signs”. About two months or so ago, she went in for her routine bloodwork and had screaming high numbers. We jumped on it right away, fed her an appropriate diet heavy in wet food and low in phosphorous, with extra binder power added on top of it to pull any additional phosphorous out. We, unfortunately, were too late to save her and had to euthanize her last weekend to ease her suffering (she had gone toxic because of stones blocking her from being able to eliminate due to her kidney disease).
I was just looking at cats. earlier in the week. “Just looking”.
I miss those days before 24/7 television. I think that’s when I actually still liked some of what was out there. There was no need for “reality television” that is anything but reality. Life was reality enough and we still fully embraced the escapism of turning on the television. If you needed more reality, you could grab it between five and six-thirty most evenings. And, again, for a half-hour at ten (here in the Upper Midwest anyway).
The afternoon circus talk shows aside, it was all escapism. And that was fine.
Twenty-six weeks starting in the autumn. Repeats the next half year where we could relive our escapism. And you had to wait each week for your show to come around again. Binge-watching was unheard of.
My daughters sometimes make me watch shows, promising me that I’ll really like this one or that one. And sometimes they are okay recommendations. Good even.
But then comes the inevitable binge watching requirement. All three pull that one on me: “Dad, let’s watch television for three hours each night for the following four days!” And then, the groaning about how they’ll have to wait a whole year for the next eight episodes of varying length will be available while I pray they forget to include me because I am utterly burned out on the storyline that has a weak premise to it anyway and is generally anything but escapism.
But the part I miss most is the late-night station sign off. That crappy quality video of the American flag flapping in the perfect breeze to the Star Spangled Banner or America the Beautiful at midnight or one a.m. It could mesmerize when you were over-caffeinated, over-sugared and generally not intending to wake up until after ten in the morning. I would watch the perfect flag perfectly flapping in the perfect breeze between the wear artifacts in the magnetic video tape.
And then… Suddenly… White noise visually and sonically. Big Bang residue, they said at least at one time, although who knows if that is really the case.
