Belief.

“Grace does not destroy nature but perfects it.”  

                    —Aquinas

Sleeping Beauty by Archibald Wakley

Sleeping Beauty by Archibald Wakley, 1906

I have been turned into an animation by my grandson.

 

I have been turned into an animation by my grandson. He got the hair right, that is jeans which I always wear, glasses, earrings, and I often wear a gray top or jacket. Lipstick, too. SO cool. Colin knows me well.

Today is Momma's Birthday, and a Selfie.

 Today is my Momma's birthday. She was born on October 13, 1919. Yes, over a hundred years ago. She died in 2009, almost age 90 and I still miss her so much. I had to run errands today, the most important one, getting gas for the car. I always wait to the last minute, till I am literally running on fumes, and so there I am, getting gas, and I don't remember where the gas cap release is. I just stood there smiling, thinking I might have to google it and then I remembered it was on the door. I hate getting gas. It's the one thing I never had to do until after John died. I mean, it's so annoying and smells awful and it's just not something I like to do at all. Someone else always did it for me. I am old enough to remember when a guy at the "filling station" pumped your gas and washed your windshield. I am old enough to remember putting gas on my Daddy's tab, too. Laughing. God, I miss those days, when my Daddy paid for my gas. 

All this week I have been thinking of my Momma. How incredible a human being she was and I have been seriously reflecting on what she would think of society at present, of what advice she would give me if I came asking. And I always asked her opinion on something even if I knew I might not agree with it. She was the kind of person who discussed things thoroughly, exploring all angles and such. She was wise that way, also tolerant and patient if it was not something she desperately needed to do or want. Laughing. She would have also forgotten where the gas cap release was and she would have spilt gas, too, just like I did this morning.  Momma hated the automobile if she had to drive or be responsible. She liked to be a passenger.  I don't think she got her driver's license till she was 45, and never was a good driver. She was Queen of the fender bender. Once she even backed into a police car. Because she hated to drive, she often trained her children to do it, at ages that were not legal. I could drive a car at 13 and often drove it on our extended trips, pulling over to exchange seats with Momma if there was a roadblock where the police stopped and asked for driver's license and stuff. Those did happen back on the old days.  Ah, olden days!!

Someone told me today how much I looked like my mother. Oh, Momma. Yes, I do look like her. I think I am a pale reflection of a woman who was a force of nature, a fierce creature, but then again, I might be more like her than I am willing to admit. I think some of our arguments over the years were born out of our weaknesses which were also likenesses.  We could both be cold and cruel. Opinionated when pushed. We were also too blunt. We pushed back when pushed too far. These were also gifts as well as curses.  Cognitive objectiveness ran through our veins when we needed it. We were always willing to change our minds and look at things another way. We were also women who could remain coldly observant when situated in a very mixed environment or predicament. I have never forgotten that.  That is a gift and I learned it from watching her and how she lived.

Simple things I am grateful for, things my Momma insisted on:

Having chores as a child.

Watching little TV as possible.

Reading, doing homework, on my own.

Learning to be alone and not entertained all the time

Manners. 

Paying attention to what other people do instead of what they say.

Listening but not being afraid to talk.

Having the right to say no.

Never stop learning new things.

Loving as much as possible.

My mother's name was Pauline Church Harrington. She was born poor, lived a hard life, for most of her adult life was a working mother. She was flawed, as all people are, and had her weaknesses, but she was a force of nature, and I miss her. I miss her so much.

Into the darkness they go......

Victor Prouvé, Vision d'Automne, 1899

“Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. ”

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Giaour

"But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corpse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race."

—Lord Byron, The Giaour

Fragment: "Igniculus Desiderii"

To thirst and find no fill, -- to wail and wander
With short unsteady steps, -- to pause and ponder, --
To feel the blood run through the veins and tingle
Where busy thought and blind sensation mingle, --
To nurse the image of unfelt caresses
Till dim imagination just possesses
The half-created shadow, then all the night
Sick . . .

                                 —Percy Bysshe Shelley

                              

I am definitely akin to the cat.

Young Woman Holding a Cat by Gwen John

In August, I let an old friend read some of my WIP, which is really something I don’t like to do. I suppose it’s because I am always editing the WIP and I don’t need people wasting their time on something that is likely to end up in the garbage can. It always does especially if it’s in the first 150 pages because I rewrite those pages over and over as I write along. While reading she suddenly asked me out of nowhere, if I had based one of the characters on myself, and then she added, “and the cat character too…those two are a lot alike.” Rarely do I ever find myself dumbfounded and speechless by a reader’s comment. That’s not my personality at all. But I was stumped that maybe I had written myself into a book unconsciously, without a plan. Of course, this person has known me over 30 years. I have to admit, I stopped writing at that moment and began reading all the little vignettes I had written in the last year for this book, and low and behold, I had not only written myself into this story, I had written what it was like to be a cat person. 

 Cat people are different from dog people in many ways, though some people are both cat and dog people. The latter just love animals. But this essay is more about psychology than just being an animal lover. People who really love ONLY cats are very different people and a much smaller percentage of the population. I’ve always known this, long before Google ever existed. I knew it as a child, just from my childhood neighborhood which I believe was very representative of the general population. Dogs were everywhere, in over half the households. Of course, some people did not have pets at all. But rarely known was the “strictly cat lover.” There was only one on my street and no, I was not the one. We were not allowed to have pets in the house for various reasons. But we had dogs, cats, rabbits, turtles, birds, you name it, all outside in the backyard like a little zoo.

When I look at my characters, the ones the reader/friend mentioned, I realize how aloof and set apart they must appear to the reader. In some ways that makes them less likable and huggable. At the same time, it is those very characteristics that enables them to solve the story’s major challenge. No one else in the story could do it. And that story problem made me think of cats, how silent and dispassionate they are, how they are able to strike back if annoyed or confronted, how secretive and covert they can be when stalking, how open they are to change and new ideas. Cats are very creative. Less than 12% of the population truly loves cats for who they are, hunters and stalkers. In fact, cats are still carnivorous hunters like their distant ancestors. I have always been a cat person. It is the only pet that I bonded with over the years. They are independent creatures and I suppose that is something I truly value. 

Kitty the Cat and I are best friends. Who knew?

A Drop of Night by Stefan Bachmann

"This empire of suffering and pain. There is no end to it. There cannot be. When we are poor we wish to be rich, when we are rich we wish to be loved, when we are loved we wish for freedom from pain and endless life and unchanging happiness. It is a great, unstoppable conundrum."

                                   —Stefan Bachmann, A Drop of Night

Fair is Foul, Foul is Fair

 

Fair is Foul, Foul is Fair

October 3, 2013, Memphis Zoo

                                                                                  Colin