Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Wellness and he's almost 7 now.

But it wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning. It was fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining to be exact. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000-year-old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of no-see-ums. She has a particular dislike for those. I'm not sure why.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "Just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"A painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and that work is surrounded by mystery. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. It wasn't one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just pause here to say how happy it made me to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I was impressed that I'd come up with this insightful nugget. It doesn't happen often and on those rare occasions, I like to appreciate the experience fully. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--and by lover I mean the citizens of her country--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by that mysterious letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her reply. Again, there was only silence. But she had a look on her map that caused me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes. I began to feel like one of those orators who incite mobs to action. Not one like Trump but rather one like Thomas Payne.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of people in Ukraine or Palestine. Like the way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"Many people are struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said. 

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized from the whisper that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.

Uma's Wet Kiss

A wet kiss woke me from sleep this morning. No, it wasn't the Wonder in my life. That one had been up since dawn making the world safe for executive meetings. No, not her. The wet kisser was Uma, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. 

I knew it was her right away because, despite her royal titles, her kissing behavior isn't continental--one cheek suffices for her greetings.

As soon as my eyes were open, she left the bed and danced out into the hallway. She slowed only at the bottom of the staircase where she called for me to join her.

When I arrived, she was in mid-squat, the better to sit in my hand and ascend the stairs to her window seat in Wonder's office. 

I apologize to members of the Inner Circle for stopping the narrative here for a bit of station identification. But I feel the newcomers may benefit from a little background.

You see, Uma has season tickets for the box seat overlooking the beginning of another day in Lanvale Forest. She likes to be settled in before the curtain goes up on sunrise, the better to witness the arrival of the big yellow school bus.

Ms. Wonder and I feel we owe her our support in these morning rituals because it's she who taught us that all cats are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Now that's done, let's return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Once Uma was comfortable and ready for the first act in the daily drama, I rushed across town for my weekly mood tuneup. Nothing major, just a change of attitude and the usual 21-point assessment. I was bucked this morning because I had good news to report.

"I'm journaling," I announced to Beach. If you haven't been introduced, Beach is my therapist. I probably should have put that in footnotes but we're not big on procedure here.

"How's that going?" she asked.

"It's good," I said. "I don't know how to quantify the benefits but I'm enjoying it and I think enjoying it is important."

"Of course," she said. "Journaling is an example of an expressive coping method, which is a technique that helps a person overcome negative thoughts, feelings, or experiences by releasing them. When you write about them, they can have less power over you."

"Ahh," I said, and then because I wanted to tell her a story that involved me as the main star, I said, "I've also been socializing more."

"Journaling can help you cope with anxious thoughts," she said, "by putting your thoughts into words and then putting them aside rather than letting them become an obsession."

"Right," I said. "I had an interesting experience in a coffee shop on my way here this morning."

"Emotional writing," she went on, "significantly decreases symptoms of depression too. People seem to get greater benefits when they focus on deep feelings and thoughts rather than simply recording daily experiences like a traditional diary."

"Are you writing this down for me," I asked.

"Did you say that you've been socializing more?" she said. "Are you attending more meetings?"

"Oh, no, nothing that drastic," I said. "But let me tell you about my visit to Native Grounds this morning."

"Do," she said, "I'll bet you hold me breathless with the story."

"This morning I was helped by a young barista and after the initial pourparlers, she said, "I really like your shirt."

Well, we all enjoy a good compliment, of course, and I thanked her and said that the shirt was a favorite."

"You always wear the coolest shirts," she said surprising me not a little. 

"Oh," I said, "you've made my day."

"Seeing you in your cool shirts makes my day," she said.

"I was non-plussed. I didn't expect such an encounter with someone taking my drink order. And it didn't stop there. When my bagel popped from the toaster, she brought it over to me."

"I see why you're in a good mood," said Beach, "What a wonderful way to start the day."

"Yes it was," I said. "That one act of kindness made me understand for the first time ever, why God decided against the total holocaust of Sodom or Gomorrah or both or whatever, all for the sake of one person--that one being Lot. It's more evidence that one person really can make all the difference."

"Hmmm," said Beach.

"Although I still think it a terrible prank," I said, "to turn Lot's wife into a pillar of salt just because she looked back at the home she was leaving. I mean, don't we all look when someone says, Don't look now but...?"

"I'm afraid that our time is up," Beach said.

"Don't forget the notes," I said. "I'll want to review in case there's a pop quiz."

The Gift of Today

"Poopsie!" I cried. 

Just to be clear, when I say that I cried I don't mean that I boo-hooed. Certainly not. The Genomes never shed tears, unless the situation calls for tears, and in those times we cry like the dickens. But, as I say, this time was not one of those times.

What I meant to say is that I called out the nom de plume in a loud voice because Ms. Wonder was in her upstairs office where she first constructs what must be elaborate plans and then performs the many mysterious wonders that are cause for celebration far and wide.

I waited for a reply but it never came. Nothing to worry about; she seldom replies when I yoo-hoo up the staircase.

And let me pause here for a bit of station identification and say that those of you who are composing critical comments about my "yoo-hooing up the stairs" should be ashamed of yourselves, especially if you're members of the inner circle. Such behavior is not becoming of someone who aspires to the level of preu chevalier.

And coming back to our original programming, let me explain that I knew her silence meant she was up to her eyebrows in corporate stuff and had no time for off-topic discussions. It left me with no other choice but to bound up the stairs and enter her sanctum.

I stopped in the doorway and waited for her to look at me. Eventually after a few false starts, she did look at me.

"Each day is a gift, Wonder," I said. "A unique and very special gift that we must live to the fullest. No matter what life bungs into the waking hours, it's still the same day. "

"And?" she said. You will note the obvious lack of interest, not so much as mild curiosity in her response. I didn't like the implications but life seemed to think it necessary and so I accepted it and moved on.

"You've heard me say many times, Poopsie, that life is a prankster. She leads you to think that you've got a bit of apple pie coming your way and then, when you're not looking, it's a pie in the face."

At this point in the conversation, her face took on a look of resignation. She sighed deeply like someone who just learned that her day off was forecast to be overcast with a 60% chance of rain.

The image before my eyes of my one-and-only Ms. Wonder with a look of despair, ever so mild but still.... It was too much. I forgot what I'd come upstairs to tell her. She alone seemed worthy of attention in the present moment.

Princess Amy said, "No, no, no! It's about us, remember?"

"I'm sorry, Amy," I said. "Sometimes it's best to think of others. This time is one of those times."

"Did you say something?" asked the Wonder.

"Just thinking out loud," I said. "How about an afternoon off?" I said. "I was thinking about a trip to Holden Beach to look for some of those 40-million-year-old fossilized whatsits that you're so fond of."

"Saddle up Wind Horse," she said. "I'm logging out, now. With any luck the clouds will clear and we can hang around to watch the sun set."

"I think the clouds have already begun clearing," I said.

Why Write At All?

From my earliest years, I wanted to be a writer. It was not that I had any particular message for humanity. I just wanted to write something light and humorous to make me feel better about my own dreary life and maybe, with a little luck, those stories would help someone with a similar life feel better about theirs.

Beignet Lafayette, Cat of the Year for 5 consecutive years.

There was a brief period in my late teen years when my writing teachers in school convinced me that I had some talent and should keep writing. Their encouragement, which I am grateful for, allowed me to think that a muse had called to me and was silently urging me to share the stories in my head. I realize now that if I ever received a call from a muse, it was a wrong number. 

Thank you P.G. Wodehouse for that bit of wordplay.

It's good that I didn't have a message for the world in mind because, after all these years of writing, still not a glimmer of a message has appeared. Unless I get hotted up in retirement, I fear that humanity will remain a message short.”

Whatever the reason, and even if there is no reason, I continue to write.

I have many writing friends who strive to turn out perfectly crafted stories. But not me. I think of my stories as musical comedies; the music plays in the background. I begin with real-life experiences and then look for ways to make them humorous but there must be something genuinely quirky about the actual event. 

When I find the absurdity, I exaggerate it but I don't make things up just to be funny. That's why I sometimes go through a dry spell with nothing to write.

When I can laugh at the circumstances that cause me anxiety, anger, or embarrassment, I feel that I have some control over my quality of life. If I exaggerate the events to make them funnier, so what? The time for concern is when I can't find anything amusing in my daily life.

And so I don't worry about the exaggeration. The story is still true, just a bit more interesting. The Nac Mac Feagals, a race of wee people created by Terry Pratchett, always offered two stories when asked for an explanation. One story contained only the facts. The one the Wee People preferred had elves and dragons woven into it. When people chose the bare facts version, the Nac Mac Feegle would show their disapproval by exclaiming, 

Crivens!

Don't you agree that the Elves-and-Dragon version offers greater possibility for entertainment? And if fantasy doesn't fit in the story, you can never go wrong by substituting cats for elves and dragons.

I suppose the greatest benefit that comes from fictionalizing my daily life is that it allows me to distance myself from the uncomfortable nearness of dark, foreboding thoughts.

In that calm, friendly, sometimes funny space that comes from detachment, I can find hope for today and purpose for tomorrow.

I'm On My Way

Don't know where I'm going, but I know where I've been. I don't know where I'm going, but I know I'm on my way.

The Circular Journey is a blog that I use as a sort of journal to record my attempts at becoming a better version of me. And yes, despite the numerous indications to the contrary, I do try to become a better at being me. I like to think I'm escaping the limitations of yesterday. 

Despite what Marie Forleo, Gary Vee, and  Seth Godin would have me believe, as inspiring as they certainly are, progress is a slow, difficult, and inconsistent process. It also, for some mysterious reason, causes me to write long, rambling sentences.

Sarah Hall assures me that there is a vast, universal intelligence that loves me and wants only what's best for me. That intelligence is bombarding the entire world with a loving energy that will upgrade our chakras and help us to achieve a higher level of consciousness. 

I'm not sure what's meant by a higher level of consciousness. Does it mean that more of us are becoming twee? I like to think so.

Whatever is meant by that higher-level stuff, it makes me feel better to hear her say it even though I don't know what she's talking about.

And even though I like to listen to her messages from the angels, the help we receive, assuming that we are receiving something, from this all-loving and all-powerful being doesn't make the process any easier or faster.

It would be so nice to say a few affirmations, declare a clear, coherent intention, and become transformed into a new and better mindset. The way they do in movies.

The gist of the matter, for me at least, is that I don't know where I'm going. Not really. I do know where I've been and I didn't like it there. Until I find my Camelot, I'll keep working step by step on my self-improvement journey, which I like to call, The Circular Journey. 

I'm on my way! Fierce Qigong!