roange cat

[stilltrucking]

eadd

november 22 1963
setpember ?? 2008
everytime this that hapepens
premonition of death
open graves everywhere
coyotes got him

[stilltrucking]

push comes to shove
the bell tolls
for me

and I can still lie.

[stilltrucking]

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[stilltrucking]

Arthur Koestler, The Act of Creation (1994) Dell/Laurel, New York, USA. [page 178]:

"The creative act, insofar as it depends on unconscious resources, presupposes a relaxing of controls and a regression to modes of ideation which are indifferent to the rules of verbal logic, unperturbed by contradiction, untouched by the dogmas and taboos of so called common sense. At the decisive stage of discovery the codes of disciplined reasoning are suspended - as they are in a dream, the reverie, the manic flight of thought, when the steam of ideation is free to drift, by its own emotional gravity, as it were, in an apparent 'lawless' fashion."


http://www.cleanlanguage.co.uk/articles ... aphor.html

[the mingo]

That's it! That's it! - what is coming into being uses us to get here!

[stilltrucking]

November 22 1963 an orange cat was run over by a taxi cab in baltimore.

One more blow for the day.

I was two weeks from the date of my 22 nd birthday.

I was on the edge of insanity and murderous rage.

The last few weeks I have had a strong promonition of death. I have always been death obsessed but normaly it is just a buzz in the background.

But lately it has become stage center again.

September 17 as near as we can tell the coyotes finally got the orange cat again.

The death premonition has lifted, or been repressed. Maybe because I am hiding from who the bell tolls for.

I am in denial.

A coward not a hero.

In my superstitious mind I associate the death of a cat with an impending death of a loved one. We are all so old now. Who do I love more than myself. None. If one of us is going to die, I much prefer it to be me. That is the truth. I just got all this crap I need to take care of. Final arrangements,

Maenwhile
All I can do is
watch the thoughts chug across this text box
a moment of truth is coming
and I expect to read it here.

pardon my morbidity
as I prepare my own portal
my white hole coming out the other side of the blackness.

"beware of thoughts that come in the night" William Least Heat Moon

[the mingo]

make sure ya let me know when ya check out and where ya get planted so I can write on your tombstone "The coyotes got him" and
"View more Emoticons"- William Least Heat Moon, whose father was Heat Moon. It was Heat Moon's contention that a man who missed
the journey missed about all he was going to get.

[stilltrucking]

Sure missed the journey mingo
the last thirty years any way

on my gravestone
let him roll boys, let him roll

But I still got plenty left to journey I hope.

[stilltrucking]

I have had such a premonition of death the past couple of weeks. Like I have been in a desperate race to commit every kindness I can to everyone I know.

Coyotes killed my sisters cat last week. For some reason the premonition left me.

I have thought a lot about my funeral. thought about it but done nothing about it. I think it would be so cool if I could make arrangements for it to spare my family the expense and hassle.

I would love to have a burial at sea. If I had the bucks for it. Hire a big party boat have an Irish Wake with Jewish food lots of good stuff to drink and eat. a beautiful sunrise and my body commited to the deep. till the sea gives up its dead.

Not much much experience with death, other than my parents and a few friends and few strangers.

[mtmynd]

I witnessed a burial at sea when I was aboard ship in my Navy days. Heard the word that an old Chief requested the burial and the ceremony was going down that day. Fortunately I was off duty. I wanted to see a burial at sea... something mysterious and romantic about that, especially for an old sailor whose only family was the Navy.

I was on a small sponson, above the elevator that brought the planes up from the lower deck to the flight deck. An ideal location. There a small crew of sailors dressed in their formal blues with the priest stood by a black body bag that contained the dead man lay flat on a gurney. The priest spoke his words followed by a bugle sounding taps. The small crew rolled the man's bagged body to the edge of the elevator then the priest spoke his final words. The gurney tilted, the black body bag slid off... down into the open sea. A very small splash and it was over.

I couldn't help but imagine this lonely black body bag floating from side to side in it's long descent to the bottom of the sea... perhaps several fish, maybe some sharks coming in close to the drifting bag to see what this strange thing was. Then as suddenly as life left the sailor's body, the filled body bag hit bottom, snuggling into the sand below where light has never been seen. The man's body buried beneath fathoms of water to eventually fade away. The old sailor was reunited with his Neptune.

[stilltrucking]

I guess I just want to be out on the the ocean one more time, even if I have to die to get there.

Worked on a trawler off the northwest coast of the US as far out to sea as I ever been, about ten miles off the coast of Washington State. One of the happiest times in my life.

I will probably wind up being creamtated cause I hear that is the cheapest way to go. I would like to make some arrangements instead of sticking my family with the hassle.

I am not sure I trust those pre-paid burial insurance policies but I been thinking about that.

I almost bought a pack of Dorals yesterday. But it was too overt.

[the mingo]

So, I take it that this orange cat is dead? Coyotes? I believe it but I've never understood how a cat gets taken by coyotes. Cats are usually so on the edge of their toepads every moment that its hard to visualize them being taken unawares, I mean how do you sneak up on
a cat? I chased a coyote once, on foot, for kicks. One of his back legs was lame. I got within six feet of him but that was it. He stayed just out of reach all the way across the parking lot, looking back over his shoulder once in awhile not even concerned. I think it was the coyote who was getting his kicks.

[stilltrucking]

Yes he was found in pieces, just some bones and scraps of fur, his name was Dennis. From the cartoon of the little boy. A sweeter cat never lived. Saw my nephew through some hard times when he was a kid and Dennis was a kitten. Been hard on my sister and her son. Dennis must have been around 15 years old I think. Not his first brush with coyotes, one took a hunk out of him about five years ago. He has not been the same since then. I don't know how a coyote can kill a cat. Maybe he was just too old and fat to get away? Also I wonder if coyotes hunt in packs?

I like your new tagline a lot. Very nice.

The avatar too, is that a new painting?

[the mingo]

yeah Jack, newbie's all the way around for the avatar and my uncle's recent adventures have provided some grist for my mill and some sauce for my goose. I'd agree with ya that age had something to do with the cat's demise there. Coyotes do pack up but it's hard to tell that around here because there are usually more trees and heavy brush than ya got down where you are. If you see a single coyote here its a good bet that it's a young male been kicked out of a pack to make it on his own. I've read that the bottom of the heap female is sometimes chased from the pack too but that is just what I have read. If I have seen it I didn't know I was seeing it. The coyotes here are wary of folks but not scared. They will sometimes watch you if you are out walking in the woods just because they are curious about what you are up to. They get blamed alot for when cats come up missing around here.

[stilltrucking]

Also killed
a colt and a cow had their throats ripped out.

Maybe it was a pack of wild dogs not coyotes. Strange about that colt, it was in the same fenced in area with its brood mare and a couple of other horses.


Found a poem I liked to day,

about the gods of the market place

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

the whole poem is here

Stumbled on it from this article in the new york times

Op-Ed Columnist
Kiplin’ vs. Palin
By ROGER COHEN
Published: October 5, 2008

Repeat after me: pigs can’t fly. Repeat after me: if you don’t work you die. Repeat after me: fire will certainly burn.

Perhaps these truths seem self-evident. But let’s face it, the whole Wall Street debacle, with its cost of some $700 billion to generations of Americans, was based on the fathomless human ability to disregard facts and believe in cloud-cuckoo-land.

Risk no longer existed. The penniless could afford a $200,000 house. Real estate prices could only rise. Securities full of toxic loans would prove benign. Debt was desirable, leverage lovely, greed great. Two and two made five. The moon was a balloon and streets were lined with gold.

How could it happen? That outraged question springs now to everyone’s lips. But from Dutch tulips to Californian dotcoms, great heists have happened and will again. No flight from reality is as sweet as the illusion that money grows on trees.


A friend wrote suggesting I take a look at Rudyard Kipling’s poem, “The Gods of the Copybook Headings,” in the light of current events. Written in 1919, when Kipling was 53, in an England drained by the Great War, which had taken the life of his teenage son, the poem makes sobering reading.

A copybook was a school exercise book used to practice handwriting. At the tops of pages, proverbs and sayings (like “Stick to the Devil You Know”) appeared in exemplary script to be copied down the page by pupils. The truisms were called “copybook headings.”

The poem begins:

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

And what are the qualities of these “Gods of the Copybook Headings?” The fourth verse sets them out.

With the hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,

They denied that the moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

The seventh verse reads:

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul:

But though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”

Truth, in short, confronts delusion and utopia.

Kipling is not much in fashion these days, other than for his children’s books. For a politically correct age, he speaks too bluntly of the world’s — and empire’s — cruel ironies. But his vivid evocation of war’s horror, man’s hypocrisy, illusion’s price and power’s passing make him important in this pivotal American moment.

As it happens — life’s ironies — I was reading Kipling after watching the vice-presidential debate, or more precisely Sarah Palin, the winking “Main-Streeter” from Wasilla. And the words of hers that rang in my ears were:

“One thing that Americans do at this time, also, though, is let’s commit ourselves just everyday American people, Joe Six Pack, hockey moms across the nation, I think we need to band together and say ‘Never Again.’ Never will we be exploited and taken advantage of again by those managing our money and loaning us these dollars.”

Huh?

I’m sorry, Governor Palin, words matter. Life has its solemn lessons. “Never Again” is a hallowed phrase. It’s applicable not to the loss of a mortgage, but to the Holocaust and genocide.

According verbal equivalency to a $60,000 loan and six million murdered Jews, or 800,000 slaughtered Rwandans, is grotesque. Perhaps Palin didn’t mean it, but that’s no less serious. The world’s gravity escapes her.

Not Kipling, who wrote in “Epitaphs of the War” (1914-1918):

If any question why we died,

Tell them, because our fathers lied.

I wonder, after the lying and the dead of the Bush Administration, in the midst of the wars, in the face of 760,000 lost jobs, is Palin’s offer of a “little bit of reality from Wasilla Main Street” enough?

“The Gods of the Copybook Headings” ends:

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man —

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Palin, Mainstreeter that she is, loves to drop her g’s, so she’d no doubt call the poet Kiplin’. She might have asked, with that wink, to call him “Rud.”

That’s cutesy politics. But pigs still don’t have wings. The world’s still a dangerous place. It’s time for copybook realists in the White House.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/06/opini ... en.html?em