On any day ending in ‘y’ – and there are a few, seven, perhaps – I try to add a few words, syllables, phrases, paragraphs, to my meowmoir. It’s a humble little thing, but it grows by degrees, and claw marks. Routine is the answer; work, the solution. Begin yours today, my dears.
When I meditate, or engage in complex and nuanced yoga poses, I am invariably sleeping. Don’t knock it, it works; also, if you knock it, you’ll wake me up, and I will be cranky. Arguably, dreaming of such things is as effective as doing them, and who are we to say we are dreaming or we are real-ing? Hmmm? Now I must return to my weight-lifting – the 250kg snatch and beef jerky, shall we say?
It is a well-known fact that all felines of taste (and that’s all of us, of course) have a big place in their hearts for the mid-century modern home of distinction, whatever its size. All that glass, all that minimalism, all those lovely sofas to scratch in such a lovingly destructive way. Mmmm mid-century, the best time of all. Let’s go there now, fellow tragics.
Here on Mars, it can be difficult to find a comfortable chair, or even a packet of chips to eat while sitting in the comfortable chair that’s hard to find. There’s little else to do as we wait for the potato crop to come in (though it may not since we haven’t bothered to plant it yet, too busy sitting in the non-existent chair). Things are going off the rails here, so I’m off to see my good friend, the Mobile Psycatrist (watch out for her in future instalments from the fourth rock).
When I was but a wee kitten, my parents and overly competitive sibling and I would travel into the hill country to visit Mama’s sister, Beck From Jupiter, and her husband, Lomas (we never worked out where he was from, lovely head of fur, though).
There I would play in the yard with my overly competitive sibling while the adults got on with their plans to rule the cosmos. He was older than me, OCS was, and could be relied upon to initiate ridiculous games and quizzes, such as, ‘How full is that water tank?’ Anxious to please, and win, I would spend most of the day tap-tap-tapping at the water tank with my tiny, ineffectual little knuckles (yes, of course, cats have knuckles, they’re just well hidden) and asking, ‘Is that it? Is that it?’ of my OCS who, of course, always replied, ‘No, it is not, young Last. Keep tapping,’ as he sashayed around the fenceline in search of, shall we say, playful lizards.
It was a source of persistent curiosity to my mother that, at the end of these idyllic sessions on the hill, I would be completely incapable of holding the tidbits of river trout Mama handed over to my OCS and me in the back seat. My bruised knuckles would refuse to co-operate, and eventually, after much meowing and consideration, she would haul me into the front seat and onto her lap where she’d paw-feed me the teeny morsels.
Needless to say, my OCS in the back seat all alone was rather livid with this outcome, but was I devoid of a master plan just because I was younger, tinier, adorable-er, bruised-er? No, gentle reader, no, I was not.
So I made a quick trip to the third rock this weekend and look what I saw! And you, too, fellow, planetarians and Martians, can see it in its full splendiferous and colourful magnificence on SBS TV tonight at 8.30. Any minute now, in fact, if you live in the southern states with their funny hour-ahead cult of the sun. Probably on SBS on Demand, too, maybe, perhaps, check it out anyway. And if you need more about Mardi Gras – and who doesn’t? – check out the Mardi Gras website.
And don’t forget to remember as you count sheep to sleep tonight, and every night, that love is all there is, really, in the end, and forever and always. That’s what we kittens remember, and also, tuna melts on sourdough with just a hint of parsley and a sprinkle of freshly crushed peppercorn, yeah …
Too soon to revisit Selfieville and its strange inhabitants wherever they may find themselves? I think not. And the sooner little Brutus realises that, like Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he may be little but he’s totes fierce, the sooner he can flee that rather gorgeous flytrap of an island and get his own Dogagram account.
Unless, of course, his human frenemy, Tasty McMeatus is about to become his very closest chum, if you know what I mean.
In the good old bad old days – tens of millions of years ago, deep time they call it – there were reptilian types strolling around the colder regions. Not because they had access to beautiful Cornelius furs and could rug up, grasshopper, but because the polar regions were little greenhouses back then.
Check out this article about ye olde climatic conditions, taken from an essay in the New Scientist, if I’m not mistaken, but you don’t have to subscribe to this one to read it. It’s very interesting, and a little scary. What more could you desire, my dears?
While I’m not given to effusive celebrations here on the red planet at this time of year, I fully appreciate the excitement gathering speed on the third rock.
I well remember Mama and Papa and my sibling, Sibmo, enjoying each other’s company way, way back when we’d dip a delicate paw into the backyard pool before emptying it so we could stretch out and sleep on those cool, cool yule tiles in the midst of tropical summer heatwaves.
And is there anything more sublime than Bill Evans on the old CD player as you barbecue your tuna steaks and sip a delicate and frothy tunanog while swaying along to one of the coolest dudes in the jazziverse? I think there is not, my dearest friends, so I’m off to get in some practice before the big day in my rainbow robes of wondrous, all-inclusive hue.
Meanwhile, let’s all send healing vibes of peaceful energy from wherever we may be to surround and suffuse little mother Earth with kindness and the calming balm of love. I mean it, dudes, let’s start vibing the positive before the place does itself an irreversible injury, okay?! Okay-a-rooney.