As the idiom goes, fight fire with fire. If this is true, well, the best way to fight chaos is by adding/making life more chaotic.
Getting a pet of some kind — preferably a quadruped with personality and not confined to a cage — was inevitable. There have been constant recurring pet dreams over last year, all of which involve cats and abruptly ending, or me waking up midst panic attack after the furball manages to run away and/or get lost. Although a psychic-medium did tell me a furry friend was in my future, I probably didn’t need the information solidified. (I was also told it was going to be a dog, but the pup has yet to reveal itself.)
The cat, named Roosevelt, a.k.a Rosie, is doing really well. He’s now healthy aside the first few typical ailments that were plaguing him upon adoption/rescue. A gathering of eight kittens were found in a barn. It was obvious they were from different litters and were quite sickly. After getting word, I requested to see the furballs, but didn’t intend to get one. I wanted to get a feel for personality, however. They were still really young, and Roosevelt was five weeks at that time. Who knew any were fit to be taken to a new place. Yet I brought a makeshift crate, or a cardboard box, in case.
Before arriving, I thought the two orange cats were only available, which is typical of my luck to admire a ginger. But there were more available. The longhaired orang was not available. The two “black cats” were up for grabs. Despite coming across as a black cat, Roosevelt has shades of auburn on his back. His neck, belly and legs have white mixed into the darker fur.
The cat is also finally getting over the fact I thought he was a female. (The long hair covered his penis, and I accepted the fact he may be a she instead of rummaging around down there. Let the vets do it, right?) Roosevelt also suffered from insane gas, which was possibly an effect from having worms. Despite it all, he was and is still charming. Any passing of gas in the presence of strangers shows he’s comfortable, accepting and approving of another new friendship.
Rescuing Roosevelt was a dumb idea in the grand scheme of things. He’s a kitten. He’s a piece of work. Despite cats being really independent, he’s dependent as this age. I try to adhere to scheduled feedings — today, immediately after I asked him if he wanted lunch, he slapped his food bowl to create a clamor — and be available to play with him so his personality develops for the better.
I feel more grounded. There is this new, innocent life I have to be responsible for, and it farts, pees, can’t feed or take care of it’s excretions, has claws and sharp little teeth.
Such as life.
This all came at the top of one of life’s bell curves. If I’m going down, well, I may as well add on more weight to affect the speed of my descent. Every single day, I would wake up and go to bed with a fuck-this-aspect and fuck-that-aspect mentality. More often than not, was unconsciously making less efforts to help with other endeavors. I hit pause with my social networking group for two months. I was close to step away from improv, because its glimmer of fun had grown dull and unfulfilling.
Despite hanging out with friends, I’d often sit there with a glazed over, bored demeanor. This was forcing myself to have fun, and there was not having it — no one did anything to offend me or turn me off.
I passed on pursuing one relationship and ended one right before it began to bud, because I was mentally checked out. From late 2015 to April-May 2017, my life was filled with a series of positive and not-so-positive romantic relationships. All were doomed to end, knowing this and looking back at them. The last ending left me scratching my head.
The one saving grace is the desire to have a family.
About a month ago, my roommate tells me he is going to move out, because he and his girlfriend are going to look for a place to call their own. A two weeks ago another ending screeched to a halt. I’m fine, I
kept keep telling myself. Instead of fulfilling the promise to myself and friends, the ending was handed to me on a sheet of 8 1/2″ x 11″ piece of paper.
I watched and allowed the toxicity to grow and fester, and the pressure did the favor of pushing me out. Just like a zit.
Or a gaseous bubble bursting from a colon. Sometimes you can’t hold it back or in.
He said, “Yes, Yes, I’m fine, Mother.”
Like birds. Like stars. Like music.
– Seán Ó Faoláin, from “The Talking Trees”
I’m sitting on a park bench, taking a break from searching applying for jobs, signing up from insurance and unemployment. There’s consistently moving water. There is green grass, trees and flowers. There are bees and flies buzzing around and humming about their interest in my mushroom soup and cappuccino, both from Phoebe’s Restaurant.
Things are complicated. They’re only going to get more complicated. The best way to less complicate life is to add more parts. Adding those parts has the ability to ground a person, make them more aware.
With that being said: I’m (going to be) fine.