— ONT WTF (@OntWtf) June 11, 2021
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Previous post: Strange Daze:
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
— Eliot
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
The scientists are in terror
and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis chose blindness
rather than have his mind stop.
Night under wind mid garofani,
the petals are almost still
Mozart, Linnaeus, Sulmona,
When one’s friends hate each other
how can there be peace in the world?
Their asperities diverted me in my green time.
A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide’s change
Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.
Gerard Van der Leun
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Now THAT was funny.
OK. I’m going out with my cat tonight.
Damn cat has more fun than I do.
Here at suburban hermitage, that role is played by the Most Mysterious Skinamalink.
Buddy the Cat just flops. He hangs out in the gazebo, and meyowls for attention when I stop for a break, but Skinnies?
A few days ago I was out front. Ol’ Skinnies appeared out of nowhere, and wanted a pet and a scratch. Just then, a couple about our age walked by, and the woman saw The Skinamalink.
“OOOH, Panther, there you are!” She turned to me, “Is this your kitty?” he shows up at our screen door…”
I looked at ol’ Skinnies, “You are sooo busted dude!”
We all laughed. The two-timin’ cat was noticeably embarrassed.
JWM
if cats could talk, and they can, they’d never let you in on this.
Does this cat know Hunter?
I bet Olive the Editor Cat would delete large portions of his fur if he ever came a-courting.
My cats (I think we have 5 right now) are an open book. They leave body parts strewn around the porch or the hallways if they can bring in their prey. Yesterday, it was a weasel, in perfect rigor, outside the bedroom window.
I tell my wife that she forever loses the opportunity to fully bond with her cats when she refuses to just haul off and bite into these love-gifts. So far, she has rebuffed that suggestion every time. Damn price of food will be so high soon, we may hafta start eating those critters. I was eyeing that fawn in the toddler and fawn video the other day. Around here, we call deer: “food”.
Here in the AZ desert, the cat would need to contend with coyotes, owls and other hawks.
Needless to say, there aren’t a lot of cats out and about.
We once had a cat, or more precisely, it had us, who did all that shit, or near enough, without leaving the house.
That video could be from the cat across the street. The Russian grandmother is always scolding Czaravitch Miko. That’s his name. He is a pompous peach cream colored Persian cat and he owns the hood. He tries to terrorize our cat through the windows. He uses the neighbor’s garden as a sandbox and climbs their wooden fence to take a leak. He is one angry, Russian mob kitty. I’ve discovered his one fear. The sound of the sprayer on my Windex bottle.