On the 1 Year Anniversary of Willow's Final Purr

It's been a year since my lovely Ms Willow Pussycat left this mortal coil and transformed into a spirit-feline (the true and most powerful form of kitty kats). I'm still finding fur and cat claws in my/our abode and, occasionally, I can hear a faint meow. So it is clear to me that Ms Willow is still lingering, which is comforting.

I will likely get another earth-bound cat one day, but for the moment I'm content just to have spirit-Willow. I can't take anymore photos of Ms Willow but that won't stop me uploading existing photos:

DVD/Video Games Rack as Christmas Tree

(Though, technically, it's actually a Baker's Rack)
(Whatever it is, it's gone a bit Yuletide)

The Path to Serenity is Paved With Rectangular Vessels

There are few things that bring me as much existential joy as having my tights/leggings/stockings drawer completely full:

Meanwhile, Ms Willow finds inner peace sleeping in my documents container (who knew envelopes could be so comfy):

The Unknown Unknown Unknowns

[Special Note: Whilst the title of this post was likely inspired by the 'logic' of Donald Rumsfeld, the post itself is not about him or his tautologies]

It is unknown to me what I was thinking, 2 weeks ago, when I wrote the title of this blog post. I know I had something in mind, but then I failed to actually write the blog post, and now I haven't got a frickin' clue what it was going to be about. I'm not making this up! It really is unknown to me what great substance was forming in my brain when I audaciously titled my unwritten blog post the unknown unknown unknowns. If Hermione Granger were here she would say, "What an idiot!". If Donald Rumsfeld were here his brain would melt and leak out of his ears.

Still, I'm feeling a hankering to write a blog post. And I have an intriguing title already in existence; a title that could mean virtually anything. And it's wildly random. A virtually random wild title. A wild title of virtually random unknowns. Okay, that last sentence doesn't entirely make any sense. Nevertheless...

random...

I suspect the average human being requires closer to 9 hours sleep per night, rather than 8 hours. That there are 24 hours in a day isn't scientific justification for dividing up the day into 3 lots of 8 hours, it's just convenient maths.

I also have suspicions about the 8 hour work day.

The longer I'm single, the more I enjoy it. I do have the occasional 'relationship', though. For example, I have an on/off thing going with the 12th doctor, so I always set aside time on the Saturday/Sunday nights when Dr Who is screening so I can spend this time with him. But when Dr Who isn't screening, I forget all about him.

(And following on from the joys of being single...the pitfalls of lurv...)
The shouty, volatile, obnoxious couple living in the flat next door need to break up (and definitely not procreate - which she is keen to do, he maybe not so much). Their semi-regular and very loud fights seem to be intensifying; last week's fight culminated in a shattered window and broken glass all over the driveway. It started with a disagreement about driving the car and to whom the car belongs:
she said, "you never drive"
he said, "it's your car"
she said, "it's our car"
and repeat. Add hysterical yelling. And feet stomping. And door slamming. And window breaking.
(Incidentally, the car is actually hers, and he catches the train to/from work, he also rides his bike and walks).
My keen observational and psychoanalytic skills lead me to conclude that the conflict about driving and ownership of the car (a Holden Astra - a notoriously divisive car) is symbolic of incompatibility in their desired levels of relationship commitment: He wants to remain a passenger (just along for the ride), she wants him to 'drive her around when she's 8 months pregnant' (presumably pregnant with their baby). I foresee more and escalating tumultuous times ahead.

Last night Alexander Skarsgård appeared in my dream. It would be okay with me if this were to happen more often.

I should try to write something meaningful about unknown unknown unknowns.

An unknown may not always be unknown, and an unknown unknown may eventually become a known that is known, but the unknown unknowns which are unknown will always remain as unknown unknown unknowns...

Filler New Year Blog Post

As is mandatory for 21st Century blogging, I am writing a blog post to usher in the New Year. However, as I cannot be arsed to think about anything, let alone write about anything, I am forced, instead, to submit this filler blog post. It will have to suffice, despite not containing any of the regular references to hopes/dreams/goals etc. for the upcoming year, nor deconstruction of hopes/dreams/goals etc. from the previous year. Nope. Nada. Nein.
In fact, this blog post refuses not only to not reference anything, but to not say anything at all - except for what has already been written, which wasn't very much or very meaningful or very interesting - and it does not take issue with any overuse of the word 'not', even when too much 'not' not only does not contribute to furthering the comprehension of a sentence, but actually increases the convolution of an already convoluted sentence (or, as is now the case, paragraph).

Terms and Conditions

[Sub-Heading: Whatever]

Note: For the purpose of this vague, confused and random blog post, the word "whatever" refers to; interactions between people (verbal, emotional, physical, intellectual), degrees of love (however this is defined), availability of mind (however this is defined), and anything/everything else.

What is the correct amount of whatever in any equal human relationship (so excluding, for example, the parent/child relationship - though, in theory, this relationship becomes more equal over time)? What parameters should be used when framing the measure of whatever - moral, legal, social, cultural, economic? How much commitment to whatever is reasonable or necessary or justifiable? Is it ethical to extract more whatever from another human than is being freely given? Maybe it turns out that the human is happy to give more but hadn't thought to do so. But what if a human isn't wanting or willing or able to give more whatever? And if extraction is allowed, how much is allowable, and what strategies are acceptable? To what extent is the whatever in relationships negotiable? Does one person ever have more say about the whatever than another because of certain circumstances? Or is it the case that the whatever that is offered is all that should be expected?

Things that are usually sought by humans from other humans are companionship, solace, nebulous love, adoration, emotional intimacy, physical intimacy, mental stimulation, intellectual connection - things that, supposedly, stave off existential loneliness and existential sadness, and which make life more worthwhile and enjoyable. Do humans have an obligation to provide these things for other humans? Why not embrace existential loneliness and existential sadness? Most likely there are terribly enlightening truths to be found in these. Does a person have to accept feeling lonely and sad because nobody loves them or wants to interact with them? Are people only allowed to be 'happy' if they are loved by other people? I don't need for other people to love me. I don't even need for me to love me (though, sometimes, I am quite besotted with myself). There are times when I'm not even sure I want people to love me. Don't love me! Or, do love me! Just don't expect me to finish this ill-conceived and increasingly inane blog post with any kind of reasoned conclusion about whatever.

Exclamation Points are Infiltrating this Blog!!!

!!!

Increasingly, as this blog continues to be written, there are recurring manifestations of exclamation points. Frequently, as evidenced in the last two blog posts, both the blog title and the blog entry will contain exclamation points. And, perhaps portentously, these exclamation points have often been appearing in threes.

According to Wikipedia, "the exclamation point or exclamation mark is a punctuation mark usually used after an interjection or exclamation to indicate strong feelings or high volume (shouting)".

The exclamation point, sometimes referred to as the Lion of Punctuation, is certainly the king of the (punctuation) jungle. It is the warrior of the writing world. When a battle cry is needed or a terribly important idea demands to be expressed emphatically, the exclamation point heeds the call. It also has a commanding presence in the other areas in which it is found - eg maths, signage, computing.

So, why do exclamation points keep showing up in this blog? What is their intention? What is it about this blog - at this point in time - that attracts them?

I suspect the answer lies in what I would describe as my current requirement for 'high volume' as a means to motivate myself. And I don't mean listening to Metallica turned up to 11 or shouting at the stars; though these approaches are not without merit. I think my natural inclination to inertia may be holding me back from things I would maybe like to be doing. At the very least, I think I'm spending a little too much time alone in my flat (actually Ms Willow Pussycat's flat - maybe she would like to have the flat to herself for a change!). It may be the case that some extra energy is needed to activate some action, and blogging with exclamation points may assist with this 'energy creation'.

Or else the end of the world is nigh, and the exclamation points - particularly when they appear in threes - serve to warn of this impending doom!

!!!

Furry Bum

Sometimes Willow likes to face the wall (it's a cat-thing) (not that this 'explanation' makes it any less weird), which allows for a magnificently close-up view of her wondrously beautiful, and quite fluffy, posterior.

She seems a little displeased.

"Excuse me! Desist NOW from photographing my bottom, infantile human, or you will experience the full force of my feline fury."

Cat alliteration is the best alliteration.

Worm Butthole

Worm Butthole. These haunting words have been haunting my mind for the past haunting weeks. Their confounding portentousness have bedevilled my very soul. I am awash with flabbergast.

The words came to me in a vision. An electronic vision. As I was attending to my duty of worshipping the Great Television Overlord (praise thee!), the images on the screen formed a 'vision' (which they frequently do), and the vision spoke to/at me. Amongst the snowy whirr of cluttered chattering, one of the characters mumbled something seemingly incoherent, but in the interstices of this ranting drivel, my ears did elucidate a wondrous revelation: worm butthole.

It is, of course, possible that 'worm butthole' is actually what the character was meant to say, and thus not a message from another dimension (or even from the beyond!). But it was quite random and completely unrelated to anything else going on with the narrative at the time, AND it was worm butthole! And it wasn't one of those wibbly-wobbly, avant garde type productions where kooky-ass randomness is often par for the course. Nor was it a nature documentary (a place where the words 'worm butthole' might not be entirely out of place).

Also, I thoroughly reject any suggestion that I might have imagined these words. The notion that I have a silly and puerile mind which, of its own volition, conjured the aural worm butthole, is completely abhorrent to me.

So now I face the daunting task of discerning and deconstructing these powerful words. Are they an urgent environmental sustainability call to planet earth to make more use of worms for composting? Or is there a deeper, metaphysical message contained within - are these words, perhaps, referencing the time-space continuum, signalling the existence of multidimensional worm-holes, which connect to each other via 'butts'?

I also face the existential question: was I the only one? Were these words meant only for me? Or did they travel haphazardly into the ears of anyone who happened to be in front of the television at the time. There may be other worm butthole ponderers. Maybe I am not alone! I shall make it my life's work to seek out these (possible) others and we can ponder together. And there will be cake. And we may even become a cult.

Have You Got Yourself an Occupation???

Not really, though I am sufficiently adept at procuring for myself daily endeavours for which my being can entangle itself, such that I am 'occupied'. But, alas, these undertakings are not, in the traditional sense, considered to be An Occupation. Also, nobody's paying me. (Capitalism hates me).

So, to summarize the previous paragraph: I have no job..I am not employed..I have not got myself an occupation. But I am significantly happier and healthier than when I did have an occupation. It seems to me, at this point in time, that the thing that was giving me the biggest headache/heartache/lifeache was the workplace. Retirement is the drug I've been looking for. (Sorry, meth dealers).

There are many things I love about being retired from the workplace. Here are some examples:
* Minimal responsibilities
* Having autonomy over my days
* Not being judged and assessed all day long
* Not having to answer to my 'superiors'
* Being allowed to feel unwell until I get better - with no pressure to 'soldier on'
* Not having to interact with people who I either don't want to interact with or don't know how to interact with
* Not having to get (coerce) my brain into a work-headspace configuration
* Not having to keep my brain in a work-headspace configuration for many hours of the day
* Engaging with whatever meaningful or non-meaningful things as my daily moods decree (usually via the internet or the library or the video store or the windmills of my mind)
* Wearing whatever clothes as my daily moods decree
* Wearing whatever mood as my daily moods decree
* Not being around toxic chemicals (specific to laboratory-based workplaces)
* Not being bored
* Drinking as much tea/coffee as I like
* Using the bathroom as often as I like
* Hanging out with Willow all day

Of course, being in my mid-forties means that society thinks I should have an occupation. Retirement isn't really culturally acceptable until a person reaches mid-sixties. Social gatherings are tricky for the non-retirement age not employed; people avert their gaze when informed that the person they are conversationing with is 'unoccupied'. I live in terror of being called up for jury duty and not knowing what to write in the occupation section - is it perjury to say I'm unemployed when I have worked as a scientist (ie is this the kind of information that would entice a defendant's lawyer to challenge me as a jurist)? Also, there is the not insubstantial issue of requiring a livable income. (I will not, however, be using my knowledge of science, and specifically organic chemistry, to undertake a career in meth cooking, even as exciting as it may seem - I've watched Breaking Bad!).

But I think it is not beyond the realm of possibility that, one day, and after actually starting to search, I will find myself a proper occupation (maybe even one that pays). Perhaps by the time I reach my mid-sixties I will have encountered an occupation (maybe even more than one) which not only doesn't suck, but which is not entirely unenjoyable to do. (Capitalism will love me - but it will not be some kind of namby-pamby-touchy-feely love, it will be a wild unrestrained triple X-rated kind of love).

Dark White Noise

Oxymoronic Challenge: Focus on my inability to focus.

The signal strength to noise ratio of the thought-frequencies in my brain is producing disconcerting static - too many (signals) and too loud (strength), and too jarring (unpleasant thoughts are noisy). Translation: I can't concentrate due to mind-fuzz, but also I don't want to concentrate on my mind-fuzz as it is residing in a cranky and gloomy place. Winter, and its short, cold days, isn't helping. Nor is bereft human connection.

In order to combat such dark white noise, I might need to rethink my recent adherence to a (so-called) healthy diet; whereby I've been attempting to reduce my consumption of non-essential and (seemingly) unhealthy foodstuffs - sweets, alcohol, caffeine, babies. Maybe living healthy is mostly only good for my body, and my struggling mind suffers under such fascist food fanaticism. Perhaps, in this time of dark white noise, it is necessary to forgo some corporeal vitality so that menacing mind-fuzz doesn't collapse into a black hole of doom.

When Existential Angst Walks in the Room, Everybody Stand Up

Or, more sensibly, just keep sitting, cos nothing is real, so nothing matters. In fact, you may as well go back to bed - only your dreams can provide some semblance of meaning and connection for your withered soul.

BUT, in defiance of isolation, pessimism, and the black hole of doom, I've realized that there's an Ent living in my yard. So many years of existential angst could have been avoided if only this epiphany had been revealed to me sooner (or I'd looked out the window).

Goal Settings

Here is my current plan:

Wander, with meandering intent, aimlessly through life; do some things, interact with some people, admire fauna, be happy, be sad, be neither happy nor sad, avoid pain. If something resembling a goal happens, then so be it.

Paranoid Party Goer

At the gathering, amongst the sociable throng , I attempt to make (polite) conversation with…the Others.

The Others: They have inscrutable minds, which harbour myriad manifestations, possibly unfathomable, and most likely, evil.

Everybody is positioned too close and at jarring angles. The milling, radiant flesh renders me grotesque, and I am made larger and more conspicuous than normal. My limbs and mouth, in strategic self-defence, relocate into an alternate universe - a relocation that can be aided by alcohol, though this is often not necessary.

Bow Before the Giant Kitty God

"Bring me food, insignificant humans!"

Moccasin Love

My feet shall never be uncomfortable AGAIN!

Oh, Yeah...Another Year...

2011 mostly sucked. May 2012 suck less.


Meanwhile, Ms Willow Pussycat is VERY ADORABLE:

The Spinster

Since I am single, childless, and have never been married, I'm thinking about re-inventing myself as an elusive and seemingly nefarious anti-superhero called The Spinster - (The Godfather can eat my knitted cardigans and sensible shoes). My supernatural powers would stem from my not having a husband or children. I would walk within shadows, for I am quite susceptible to sunburn. I would fight crime and injustice, when I could be bothered, otherwise I would ignore it. People would speak about me in hushed and reverent, even fearful, tones. I would often be covered in cat fur. Neighbourhood children would mock me, never knowing that I'm actually...mwahaahaa...keeping an eye on them (in case they get into trouble). I would get to work on that magic quilt I've been meaning to crochet - the one which can be used both as an invisibility cloak or as a lovely, warm blanket. I would have a motley assortment of conjugal companions; well, I don't have a husband to whom I have to remain faithful, so...mwahaahaa...

The Cheese

The cheese is giving me some trouble these days (see cheese mission statement at the top of this blog, which is courtesy of The Cheeseman - from Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Restless). I think the cheese is beginning to wear me. I know I am stronger than curdled milk but sometimes those cheese slices can weigh heavy upon brittle bones. Perhaps I need more calcium in my diet, which can be obtained from eating...cheese! Well, there's a revelation; should I try eating the cheese instead of wearing it?? I'll have to ponder on this, not least to ascertain what eating the cheese entails (I suspect it will partly require me to leave my flat more often and interact with the world - sorry, world). In the meantime, I think it would be helpful to revisit The Cheeseman and his wise aphorisms:

"I've made a little space for the cheese slices." (Willow's dream)

"These will not protect you." (Xander's dream)

"I wear the cheese. It does not wear me." (Giles' dream)

*Shakes the cheese slices* (Buffy's dream)

Elsewhere Brain

This brain of mine (bless her cotton grey matter) seems unable to drag herself away from absorbing and terribly complex considerations of...stuff...which is thus rendering her incapable of writing anything resembling coherency. Regular blog posting may not be wise at this time. Operation of heavy machinery could be lethal. Alchemy experimentation would be catastrophic...