Harden Not Your Heart

Talk about a hard heart; this is a paperweight!

If you remember your Old Testament (or the Torah), you will recall that Pharoah's heart was hardened over Moses' request that he let God's people go--release them from slavery.

There's an extreme of the hard heart, and well, as we also know Pharoah and the entire Egyptian nation paid for that foolish sin. The idea of a mere mortal taking a position against the Lord God of Hosts--well talk about chutzpah! And not the good kind.


And believers today, of which I count myself as one, are guilty of hardness of heart--oh, maybe not so obvious as that of Pharoah, but just as deadly, and perhaps easier even to rationalize, day in and day out.


We become hard of heart over seemingly small things and ordinary cncounters with the people in our lives. I do anyway. Been hurt by anyone lately? When it happens to me,  I pride myself that I have forgiven, but in fact, I get these little fantasies in my head whereby the transgressor will be exposed and I will be vindicated. And the circumstances of my vindication are dramatic and just a little this side of morally gnarly. I become cold in these ruminations. And me, a Christian. Did the Christ do that sort of thing? He did quite the opposite. For every wrong done to Him, he held more love for those who inflicted upon him. His heart softened for those least deserving. If I profess to be a follower, then why do I so easily justify the opposite attitude?


It shows up in really minor moments, this hardness. Ever have someone in your life who is, well, a bit of a pain? Timing is always off. They catch you on the way out to some important appointment, and though you say, "I'm just going to an appointment" they have no awareness and engage in long tales of trivia or woe? So, there you are, unable to tell them how thoughtless and clueless they are, because they will be hurt at the fact posited in less than chartiable terms. You stew. You say, "I shall avoid this person henceforward." And you go cold in your righteousness. Or people who always have an opinion about what you should or should not do, and you have not asked for advice? I go downright icy with these dispensers of subjective wisdom, no matter that in many cases their own hearts are without guile.


Help people sometimes? Sure you do. But sometimes people demand more. And a few say that you did not do enough.  And you say what? "I shall never help anyone again?" And what if you do get "taken", as it were. Ever happen? Sure it does. Do you distrust the next person in need? That seems like hardness of heart to me and I understand how it could happen, a kind of "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me" sort of challenge.


It even has become difficult to offer help. Volunteer for anything. With fear of suits being so heightened, you have to fill out multi-page applications and jump through more hoops than for a paid job. My inclination of late is to say, "Never mind, you say you want the help but I have to prove to you I am worthy of helping you?"  I can feel the hardness developing. Oh, there are good reasons for what they do, health, or criminal records, etc., but man what a way to turn off good will.

There are days that I think, "I'm never going out. I'm never talking to anyone, and as soon as someone says, 'can I run something by you' I'm running to another town."  It can't be good.   

I guess, right now, all I can do is pray that when I feel the hardness coming on I remember that I must fight it, that to give in is to give the devil his due, and that's the last thing I want to do.

The Crazy Lady Corner -- Inaugural Edition --January 26, 2011

I want to thank a former colleague of the defense bar who represents attorneys I used to prosecute for providing me with what I think will be a new, semi-regular part of this Djinn's lamp. I was surprised (and really glad I never said anything bad about him on these pages!) to learn  (at a small gathering to celebrate the retirement of a fellow beloved old timer from the State Bar at the kabob place that those who toil at the work of lawyer regulation in LA frequent) that AM has been reading my blog. His partner, and, though I do not see her nearly as much as I should, someone I consider a BFF (or in Big Bang Theory parlance, a 'Bestie') has not, however, read these pages, but she had gotten word from AM upon his perusals that I am truly "crazy." She shared that with me over my chicken koobideh, half salad, half rice.

We never did get into exactly the particulars of his perception of my craziness. And, my guess is that I would not agree with those perceptions as, though I love and respect them both, we have never seen eye to eye on a variety of subjects macrocosmic and when I was a prosecutor at the Bar, microcosmic. But that's what makes this part of the blue ball bounce--the variety in the marketplace of ideas.

But truly, I thank ye, AM and SM for providing me a first semi-regular (we shall see) installment of these pages. By the way AM, I promised to mentioned this--you don't look a day different than when I met you in March 1986.

As of this writing, I am not entirely sure what exactly will spring from the corner of my mind. But you will know that somethin' is a comin', political, religious, observational, but a little toward, well, the ranting (I know, I know, some are saying you do that in the regular entries, pshaw!). I shall be a little like the average crazy lady (is there an average?) that is, bouncing divergent thoughts on a wide variety of bouncing divergent subjects. (Hearing it again, "you do that already, Djinn dear".). Let's see how do I give it a tangible image for future reference?   When you see this picture, you'll know, and either shout "Now I must toggle" or some such more expressive phrase or stay and read with I hope a tad of amusement.  Hopefully my mood swings will provide that tad of amusement.

A picture is worth a thousand word salads.

This is my little bar. I live in a small place and so I must needs have a little bar for my wines and glasses and imbibing related activities. It is in a corner of my living room within easy reach of my favorite swivelling rocking leather chair full of cat scratches and thus covered with a variety of pillows and blankets that only makes it MORE attractive to the feline beasts who usually beat me to it. That alone would drive me to drink.

Where was I? Oh. Above the bar is a painting by moi of a favorite subject, palm trees, these in a wind, much like the one we are starting to have in Los Angeles just now. There are coasters courtesy of the land of my parents back in the old days in the Bronx. They were well used before I ever inherited them. There are newer coasters, that you can put a small snapshot in. There is a nearly empty bottle of Bombay Gin, which awaits completion by the person who left it here a few days ago. I drink the less expensive stuff, with tonic water, Gordon's and that too is almost gone as I have been on a recent gin and tonic kick. Those who remember the second Bronx apartment will remember the small marble head of Nefertiri that used to belong to my dad. I have recently rescued her from the garage because it was actually a fairly valuable gift from a friend who visited Egypt many years ago. She used to light up, but the wires long ago frayed. But I always liked her.  And somehow she fits on a bar, n'est ce pas? And then sort of to the left on the wall is my all purpose mail, key and sunglasses holder, near the door so I don't forget the key things coming in or going out.  And two corkscrews hang from one of the key rings. Oh, back to the actual bar, you see that candle? That is a Glade candle, you know the one that melts and then sends a lovely scent wafting through the room? They are getting hard to find these days. Like my Banana Nut Crunch, which I can only find at Gelson's these days. Did you ever notice that products you like disappear once you become dependent on them?  That scared me. I sounded like the late Andy Rooney just then. 

So there you are, a small piece of my living space reflecting perhaps a small piece of my frontal lobe.

Let's see where it goes.

Paean to the Iron Lady--Margaret Thatcher

This is a paean to the movie of the title "The Iron Lady" and to the Baroness herself.

I did not go to see the movie with great expectations. Some word of mouth was that there was too much focus on the Alzeimer's or whatever form of dementia that has claimed her. To me, however, her current condition (or the condition as portrayed in the years immediately after her resignation as the longest serving Prime Minister in English history and the first, and so far, only such serving woman) was a poignantly perfect center of the film. 


When we first meet her, she is living, under beneficient guard, because of fear that in her confused state she'll be seen. But though seen (I assume in a fictional snapshot) buying milk in a small grocery, she is viewd by the public and the shopkeeper as just another dotty old woman. And therein, for me, lay the genius of the film. I have heard that this toggle between the present day and her rise and fall from grace was intended somehow to diminish the woman, but to me it merely enhanced my respect for her and reminds that no matter how great any of us are, or think we are, we will end up, if we live to a ripe old age, shuffling from room to room, forgotten by most, braced only by our memories, if God vouchsafes we may keep even those. 


I remember the very real Mrs. Thatcher at Ronald Reagan's funeral, already well under the curse of her disease but still managing to be stoic and a reminder of the stateswoman that she was, as was the man she came to honor, another victim of the same disease. The character portrayed by Meryl Streep was every bit someone I would love to emulate. The portrayal has sent me back to biography and speeches and I could only wish to have one ounce of her courage of conviction.


So many scenes of the woman among men at a time when that was considered plainly iditotic by the great male thinkers of the day. She did not back down. That of course was a double edged sword, but the great are not readily swayed by the swagger of fearful and politically motivated tongues nor by acts of violence, as the bombing of the Brighton Hotel in 1984. While she and her husband escaped injury, five people died including members of Parliament. Her view, was to do what is right, not what is necessarily popular. How did she know what was right? Well, while certainly human beings are imperfect in their implementation, she was guided by natural law, moral law, common law.


She could fail to listen, it is said. Tell me, which of our current leaders are in the habit of listening, and as she noted, she was the one who ultimately made the decisions and on her, not on her opponents or even supporters, was the weight of the result of the decision.


One of the conceits of the film which I personally loved, although it has been done in many a film, were the hallucinatory appearances of Thatcher's husband, Dennis, played with such a charm that eccentric and daffy as he is drawn, I would be pleased to call him husband. From the time he meets her as a young up and coming businessman, and accepting her honest warning that she will not be the typical housewife and will be involved in statecraft, he is her buffer, even when she is not aware of it, and most of all, when she is not appreciative of it.


She paid a price for her choices. She had a son, Mark, who, at least according to the movie wanted little to do with her in her late age, no doubt a response to her lack of availability to him in his developing years. Her daughter is closer, but mother is, again according to the film, not hugely affectionate or grateful for that presence, since it is the absent boy she clearly prefers. 


The moniker, "Iron Lady" was given to Thatcher by the Russians. Politically, philosophically, she was that indeed. But even the most astute, most forceful, most prominent individual fades into the past. But right now, she is brought, hat, purse, double string of pearls, and an unconvential mind and soul, back into our consciousness and the market place of ideas.


http://www.margaretthatcher.org/






 

Who Wants to Live Forever? Considerations upon a Medical Appointment

For a bit over a week, I have been having this odd sensation. It has in no way affected my daily routine, except, I suppose, to send me to internet MDs sites in an effort to make my prelminary diagnosis--hypochondria or something real?

Nothing was happening while I was exerting myself--well to the extent I was exerting myself, like going up stairs or cleaning out the garage. But of a sudden, at rest, I had this swoosh is how I'd describe it, like a wave coming up the short of my insides to my throat, making a little grab and then swooshing off again. The other night, whilst taking my pulse in bed, I could have sworn that my heart skipped a beat. Now I know that it actually doesn't skip beats, but there is this irregularity that can happen. But of course, by the time i was taking my pulse in bed, instead of reading, I was already fixated on my heart, so who knew what was real or what was Djinn imagined.  Yes, you amateur doctors out there!  I came up with a couple of differential diagnoses to heart attack, like esophageal spasm (just happened there was an old episode of Golden Girls on late night and Rose, aka Betty White, had one of these, but based on how she reacted to her television version and mine, I thought, maybe not. And then there was GERD, essentially acid reflux, except I had no awareness of acid. And then I had enough perusing the net.


I was a terrible hypochondriac as a kid and I was convinced I was having heart attacks all the time. Then it was unlikely. Now, well, not so much, unlikely I mean. I decided on Tuesday to make an appointment with the doctor rather than go to my hair appointment. I was hoping for some opening that day, but I knew it was remote. Still, having made the appointment made me feel better, although the symptoms did not depart. Here's the thing, truly I was inclined to blow the whole thing off and take a wait and see position, but I was really afraid that I'd die and then everyone would say, "If only she had gone to the doctor. . . .". I know I was afraid I'd feel guilty after death. Ok, that IS silly. Well, really maybe not, when you think about it. When you listen to the radio or watch TV or news or commercials, everywhere you are being warned of some potential condition to check out with your doctor. I am terrified that my failure to check it out is some, to use my father's old phrase, lese majeste, a grievous failure. To die without taking ever precaution to live forever seems to be some kind of secular sin.

So, there I was today at my cardiologist/internist, in the waiting room that resembled Grand Central.  "The 4:10 elevator to the stress echocardiogram is ready to depart!"  People were swarming with their medicare cards, their insurance cards and their walkers. It seemed they clearly expected that somehow they could outrun the grim reaper, who dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck was sitting in a corner reading Computer World.and looking for likely prospects. (ok, just kidding). I was thinking that in some ways we may be better off with medical knowledge and avenues of prevention, but on the other hand we have become wildly preoccupied with our body functions. I hear one of my older friends telling me all the doctors I should be going to, to have this or that checked out.  I find myself saying, "why". Is this what life is to be? I hear the bibilical statement in my head, "Those who would save their lives will lost it." But I don't think that God is talking about medicine. On the other hand, are we too absorbed in every burp and booboo that we fail to live while we are in moderate good health?

My reverie was interrupted by the mangling of my name calling me to one of the examining rooms. Pulse and blood pressure were good (my blood pressure used to be wildly high so here I must needs nod my thanks to the meds which have reduced it to normal, or is it the fact that I am a liberated woman, free to explore my creative side?) Either way it was low. I recited my symptoms and I could see the doctor writing GERD on my chart on the computer. Since I had not had these symptoms while doing any activity, this was a sign it was not my heart. Ahh, good. Good. So off ye to the land of Prilosec and Magnesium, and you should have the stress test soon. Reprieve!!!!!!! Oh, and have some blood drawn so we can look at the numbers--I also have high cholesterol but that is under control too.

Oh, goody, more pills.

As I waited my turn with the blood letters, I read an editorial by Joel Stein in Time, his tonge also in cheek, about how he was planning his funeral to be a well attended affair unlike that of his poor grandmother who after a full and kind life, died at 90 to be mourned by the few people left to outlive her. He recommended professional mourners. Len Speaks, I am seriously considering this!  And a trip with the body to New Orleans for a jazz band parade. This seems the least a good friend could do.

Be still my heart grim reaper--oh, maybe not.

But, if I assiduously attend medical appointments, test up the wazoo, and live moderately (like that is going to happen), I can hide from Robert Redford with a scythe more successfully than Gladys George did in that Twilight Zone. Come on, we know the grim reaper isn't that good looking, but if he is, maybe I'll have a last chance at flirting. 

But then, I think of that Queen song, immortalized in that movie and TV show, Highlander, "who wants to
live forever?"  I am hoping for a good long life, certainly a lot more years, if you would Lord, but then at the right time ("He'll know when and please Lord remember that I am the biggest coward in the whole of the earth) I will pierce the Cloud of Unknowing and said "Djinna, Pascal was right."

www.youtube.com/watch?V=SR8-RTvSVxs

Remember Nancy Bollaert

If the title seems to be a bit of an exhortation, it is. Even if you did not know her, I want you to remember her. 


Her name was Nancy Bollaert. She worked at the State Bar of California fo many years. She was about to retire on December 9, looking forward to a new chapter. But she never got there. She died four days before the page could be turned  It is not fair. So maybe I am trying to eke some small earthbound fairness out of what seems unredeemably tragic and even though I believe in my heart of hearts that she has seen God and is in Safe Hands and is the recipient of a Divine fairness. 


I don't like the fact that this gentle woman is not here anymore, with us, to meet and to know better.


You know, as we pass each other by in familiar places, day after day, we get the illogical idea that it will always be thus. I am very busy today, but I can get to know you tomorrow.  Except that isn't true. Today may be the very last opportunity. 


This is what I think I know. I know that she was single and lived alone in an apartment off Sunset Boulevard. I only know that because back when the bus strike happened, I drove her and another Bar staffer to work for abotu a month. I remember laughing a lot on the way and I remember being touched at the thank you book card they gave me. She died, alone, in that apartment of causes not yet revealed. I only recently learned that she had siblings out of state. She never married and had no children. She worked day after day at her job as a secretary, and never complained.  More than that, she was kind and courteous to anyone she passed in the hallway. If you needed help in the office, she'd offer it. Her best work friend was Warren, and it was Warren who did a simple but deep eulogy for his friend at a memorial mass I was privileged to attend.  I knew about the candy dish she kept supplied at the edge of her desk. I often dipped into its wares and thought, "what a nice person to do that", and may have even thanked her once or twice.


It isn't much what I know. I think there was a great deal more to have known about the little girl in the black and white pictures that her sister let one of our colleagues copy. They are photos of a little baby, a child standing by a couch in a prim and proper dress of that generation (we are only a few years apart). An awkward teenager smiles out hopefully for a future yet to unfold.


What did she wish for? Whom did she love? What did she believe about life and death?  I have no idea.  I hope there is someone out there who is thinking about those things about Nancy. I heard she was happy about her upcoming retirement. She was a reader of mysteries I heard also, and she was going to read to her heart's content.


You know the moral of this story. Do what you are going to do, now, before it is too late as it will surely be. Care about the others in your lives--because soon you may not have the chance. Cherish the moments you have spent with someone--there are none too small.  Learn more about them. Everyoone has profound stories.


If you pray, pray for Nancy constantly. Talk to her every so often. I think she's listening and cares about her family, friends and acquaintances, even now. She touched some lives. That was her purpose.


And if you know more of her, have stories of her, share them with one another. Remember her as long as you have breath. 

And for those of you who did not know her, a special soul passed this way and if you could give her a thought or a quick prayer of your own, it would be nice. What are we but all passengers in the same cosmic boat?

Jeff's New Chapter: Free as a Bird



Ok, it's a pelican, courtesy of the art at Oakland Airport

My friend and colleague, Jeff, decided to call it a day at his life's work, which was the same as mine and was how we met. He worked in the San Francisco office, so we did not see each other as frequently as we would have liked, except by video conference at manager meetings. But when we did see each other live and in person, it was always a treat. I consider him one of my best friends. In a moment, one reason I'll share, the others I'll just keep to ourselves.


So, when Jeff's retirement party was announced by his crew up in San Francisco, the group of us  in Los Angeles who preceded him in liberation were invited, but I don't think Jeff or anyone really expected us to come for a party that would only be a few hours. But, it turned out that several of us not only wanted to be there, but we were otherwise able to do so. From here, I relate my experience of what really was just over 24 hours, but which was as much as lovely a time away and with people I cherish (especially Jeff) in Oakland and Berkeley and a few observations on my hopes for Jeff as he embarks on this new and exciting chapter of his journey on this bouncing ball.  A digression here. 


Jeff and I became the surest of friends in Denver, Colorado.  Back in the flush days of the Bar, when we were among the golden children of trials and still up and coming, we were rewarded by educational jaunts. There was one related to Judicial Commissions, if memory serves. A couple of us went from Southern California, and a couple from Northern, Jeff among them.  I did not know Jeff virtually at all at that time, and then we only had telephones, and neither cell nor video. The conference was about as dull as dirt. I actually recall polishing my nails (discreetly) during part of it. It was, for me, a Holy Day of Obligation, but as it happened I liked to look for local churches and just go in  for Mass or sit and meditate. When the session was over for the day, that was my mission, find a church and go to Mass. As we were filing out, Jeff, in his usual cheerful manner said, "So where are you going?"  "I am going to look for a Church and go to Mass". This was not something I generally announced, but his direct question required a direct answer. And then Jeff said, "I'll come with you."  It turned out he was Catholic. And the two of us bonded as we searched for, and found a Church that was pleasing visually and ceremonially. And our bond was born. 


As they say in my new world of recording for the blind and dyslexic now we "return to text". 


I arrived in Burbank for my 1:50 flight to Oakland, like an hour ahead, plenty of time. But I could not find my flight on the schedule. I had assumed, when I booked, that Southwest only flew out of Burbank and Burbank was my choice, quieter, less hassle. Except my assumption was wrong, and well, they fly out of LAX too, and guess what, my flight was out of LAX! I had already parked my car in the overnight lot and there was no way to get to LAX in time, so I ran to the desk (which was empty!!!!!!), acknowledged m stupidity and paid the charge to make a last minute change for a flight out of Burbank at exactly the same time.  As usual as the flight began I tried to quash the many thoughts of doom and gloom I have on airplanes, and contented myself that I'd only be doing that (if I lived) for a bit over an hour.  Naturally, because of the winds coming down to LA from the north, the flight was a bumpy one and like my last flight back from Missouri, the beverage service was interrupted for the flight attendants to take their seats. (GULP)


But having made it to the ground safely, seeing that the weather was pristine and being picked up by El Jeffe himself, I was restored to joy, which increased exponentially when I saw that my overnight accommodations was this amazing hotel in the hills from the late 1800s. The Claremont is reminiscent of the Hotel Del Coronado in Coronado, and although a different body of water, it is on the Bay of San Francisco.  Jeff had to go home to change from his "I've been moving appliances around my friends' house" clothes and this gave me time to savor my locale and have a drink at the Paragon Bar (and yes, it was a paragon of libation virtues) with one of my fellow travellers who just perfectly was done the hall from me in the hotel, Victoria. I savored the most exquisite pear martini and we chatted of life and freedom as we awaiting Jeff's chariot to take us to the home and site hosting the party. We were early and that gave us time to unwind and play, as Don, dressed to the role, bartended various marvelous concoctions.


Jeff has always been the least Type A of all of us former denizens of Bar employment, so I can't say that I often saw him unhappy or surly (I wish I could say the same of me as I have done unhappy and surly more frequently than I can count), but on Saturday night, his grin was as broad and luminescent as can be. It was a good size crowd and the food and conversation flowed, and the testimonials poured forth in equal measure, for a man who deserved their good offices. I was so happy to share this with him and my friends that I could almost have floated off the floor myself (and that without the help of any brew).


I do not fall asleep easily, and that was true even in the king size bed in which I could have played field hockey, but when I did, I slept through till nearly 9. Victoria dropped me off at the Newman Center for Mass. Having never been to a college joined Newmana Center I was amused by the many interludes for various songs and blessings that you'd never see at my more traditional parish but realized that the usual timing for Mass at my place was a lot less than here. I had to leave just after communion. The service may well still be going on at the Berkeley Newman Center. She kindly helped me hie thee to a Starbucks so I could have my too late morning coffee and become aware again of my surroundings. And then Jeff and his friend Steve picked us up for a drive around the neighborhood (wow, craftsmans galore, just like in Pasadena) and a most splendid brunch at Picante.  And now Jeff was like us, me Victoria, Nancy and Russ, able to say that "Tomorrow, I have the gift of my own time".  Jeff couldn't imagine not having to get to work before 9 and being able to call the entirety of his day without answering to anyone.


We had about an hour or two to kill before his taking me back to Oakland, and so we sojourned at another Starbucks and chatted about the past and the future, and laughed and revelled in our common ground on so many subjects. And then this wonderful weekend was over. 


At Oakland, while I was at a cell phone charging station, I ran into a young man who installs security surveillance in places like airports and a flight attendant about my age. That she could have done work with the public for any length of time seemed impossible given her upbeat and comedic nature. As it turned out this was her second career. For years she had worked in colleges, at desks. She had always wanted to be a flight attendant. Ah a kindred spirit, a person who had turned the page! She had only been a flight attendant for six months and she LOVED it, she said. She was going back home as a passenger to Burbank. I was back to heart in throat about flying mode, and I asked them both about it. The young man was only marginally helpful by advising me that if something bad happened, they'd turn down the oxygen so we would all pass out (gulp some more, now I'll be watching for that!). Sandy (shout out to Sandy of Southwest) said, she never heard anything like that, and said to me that the bumps were no big deal, and all that stuff about the safety in flying and then she said, "Just think of the bumps as a nice massage!". 

That was more helpful.  And we made it back to LA in 50 minutes. There was a little turbulence. I tried to think of a massage.  No go.


Late this morning, I called Jeff's cell phone. I wished him a happy first day taking off into retirement. Got an e mail later. He had slept till 9. Things are starting off really well.

What Steve Jobs Saw

Maybe I missed it.  Maybe you did, too. Maybe not much was made of them, and surely they should have been as well heard and seen as all the accomplishments which were repeated over and over.

 Steve Jobs' last words on this earth. 

According to the eulogy of his sister, the author Mona Simpson, as he looked past his family, and drew his last breath Jobs said,

 "OH WOW, OH WOW, OH WOW." 

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/30/opinion/mona


So, what's it all about? What did he see?

Let me step backward in this meandering.  I have heard the word "wow".  I have used the word "wow." But I thought I might peruse a couple of definitions for a bit of a foundation.  Here's one, right from my microsoft word thesaurus (sorry Steve, never got to an apple computer). The word is an interjection used to express surprise, admiration, wonder or pleasure. It is also a transitive verb where the speaker records being impressed or delight in a person or thing being presented.

So, somehow Mr. Jobs was surprised, admiring, feeling of wonder of something, or someone he saw beyond the people he loved on this earth. He saw SOMETHING.

Jobs told his biographer (who pulled no punches about his subject's talents or frailties) Isaacson that it was a fifty-fifty shot about whether God existed. So, this wasn't a faith groupie. He had been, if anything, a Buddhist, which, though most attractive for many of the areas which transect the sectarian, is not God based.

There are those who would say that near death and end of life experiences, things like tunnels of light or seeing loved ones, or God Himself, is explained by simple brain chemistry, something I seem to remember about the occipital lobe that governs our vision(s). Thus, what Jobs saw, he did not in fact see, except in some evolutionary protective mechanism softening the flipping of the switch to nothingness. (Jobs did not like off swtichs as it happens).

But equally possible is that Jobs discovered the God of Whom he doubted until the very last. He was impressed by the brain's illusion, or he was impressed by the visage of God Himself. Which would I, or you, devoutly wish?  Really, you'd rather that there was no God who loved you so much He prepared eternity for you?

Kismet with Cats

I am a big bump on a log today. I woke up very very late and then did not get out of bed. I had my first cup of coffee at 1 p.m.  I called a couple of people I used to work with, with whom I'd like to maintain contact assuming my hermit like nature does not take over in 2012 (refer to earlier entry), to wish each the felicitations of the season. 


And I sat in that swivel rocking leather chair of which I have become enormously fond and looked out my living room window. For a long time. After this entry, I think I shall return there. I find I am craving silence, unusual for me, and I have neither radio nor television in the background. I did hear earlier that they caught that human detritus who was setting fires to carports (some 55) in Hollywood and West Hollywood. In honor of the holiday season I shall offer no further opinions of the proper disposition of such who would prey on people as this beast did. It is people like him that make me want to shut out the world, although I know it is contra to God's plan that I have this sensibility.


As I sat looking out my window, my elderly (and inherited) ginger cat, Elwood, appeared on my table and hassock requesting more food.

Elwood

I have been thinking he must have a thyroid problem because he is eating up a storm but not gaining any weight. Without his fur I think he would be skeletel. On the other hand, I have been told that a cat with thyroid problems will eat everything ravenously. He eats SOME things ravenously, but leaves behind pretty much anything that he does not actually fancy. I hesitate to take him to the vet because Lord love those purveyors of animal medicine, they always find twelve things wrong that will cost thousands of dollars when you came in about one. And I have previously subjected an elderly cat to things like IV hydration and it was not pretty, for the cat I was trying to save.  If Elwood isn't obviously suffering I'll do the best I can with him, he being somewhere between 18 and 19 years old.

Truthfully, I have a knack for cats, perhaps more than the people who claim expertise about their ways and their health. I have owned or partially owned some 12 or so cats since I was a child. I inherited whatever this is, "talent" or "vibe" from my mother who owned the first cat I ever saw, a big black mean hisser, that used to guard me in the crib. If someone had said my mother was a "witch" right out of the movie "Bell Book and Candle" I would have believed it. She even seemed a litttle like Kim Novak in her interactions with the movie cat, also a midnight color.

I have too many right now, four, two of which I inherited, and it pleases me that I think I have too many and that I don't want more; othewise you might find me on an episode of Animal Hoarders. I am not rushing poor Elwood, but I look forward to paring it back down to no more than two.

My love for cats does not make me more comfortable with the notion, which many people have about me, with great concomitant amusement, that I am a "cat lady".  I shall protest that I am one of these poor souls, bereft of human affection in favor of feline warmth, but I can hear some of you readers saying, "yeah, right." I offer though my view on the subject.  I do not consider them my children. They are not substitutes for human beings, although there are times I prefer their unagenda'd company.  Mostly all the stuff I have that is cat related, statues, cards, photographs, whatever, was given to me. I enjoy it all now that I have it, but I would not have gone out of my way to buy cat things to go with my actual cats. I do not call myself "mommy", therefore in relation to them.  They pose a bit of a challenge in that several of my friends cannot appear at my apartment without having an asthma attack and I regret that there are far too many to whom I cannot offer my abode's hospitality on that score. But on the other hand,  I am not particularly disturbed about it, in that with or without the cats, far too many people, asthmatic and non-asthmatic alike, who have come to my place have always found it necessary to tell me what changes I ought to make in the furnishings, and my bric a brac, to make it more livable or attractive. If they have not told me directly, they have told some of my friends, who related their disappointment in my arrangements and my taste, including on occasions when they managed to accept my hospitality for vacations. It has been a life long source of interest to me that while I have not suggested to anyone how they should live in their environments, that so many have been able to offer me their unsolicited opinions. My little place is more than enough livable to me as it is with or without cats, thank you all for your offers of redecoration.  Yes, this was a bit of a side bar, but it has been on my mind.

I am just fascinated by animals, but particularly cats, except without the scientific or celebrity cache, like a Jane Goodall. They have masterfully built bodies, with every hair perfectly placed by the Divine Potter (in my view, but then you might think it random, which makes it pretty amazing itself).  With them, what you see is what you get, and that is a relief in a world of unrelenting ambiguity. They know how to live in the moment because they have no sense of past and future. I don't want to abdicate my past or future, but tI would like to be less mired in it, and so their ability is one I'd like to cultivate.

Bleu and Tipper

Today, in a sense, although with a little less ease than I would have liked, I have been a bit like a cat. I have lain about. I have looked about at flower and fauna and birds. I have not sought to accomplish anything, except maybe this entry, which came to me as I was loafing, as I believe I mentioned way up above.


I may not get back to my window now, as with a later afternoon call occupying the balance of daylight, I did not finiish this entry until just moments before five p.m. and the winter dark is descending. Well, I am going to try anyway and sit in the gloaming anyway.


And soon it will be feeding time for the presently sleeping creatures. Magically, (from their point of view) food will appear in their dishes. As for me, I think I might have a glass of zinfandel and sit peacefully awhile.