Peculiar the abandoned cat

This morning I woke up to my girlfriend on Skype in a distressed state. She had found an abandoned stray kitten outside her house, and taken it in. Her parents would sooner have left it outside, but were leaving on a trip. They only have purebred Persian cats, and a little runt from the street is certainly not welcome. Not very nice, if I am being diplomatic.

So as the door closed on the cat and she, everything was in place for a strange little situation to play out which involved us both getting quite attached to the kitten, but also aware that the situation could not last. We named our cat Peculiar. It was a previously suggested cat-name from my friend, but the circumstances of Peculiar's arrival and short stay were so unexpected that it seems the right name.

As I type, it is uncertain whether little Peculiar will survive the next few hours. He isn't keeping food down, and is already weak. The vets today were not super-helpful either.

If the little creature lasts the night, then we agreed we should take it to a clinic where we might pay for it to get professional care. I don't have a clue what kind of place exists in Indonesia which offers a high quality residential care package for stray cats, but she seems to think there is a place. It is nice that we are both of the instinctive mindset that this would be the only thing worth spending money on. We don't need much else in life, but we know what is important.

She is now trying to get some fitful sleep for an hour and a half before waking up at six am to begin the process again of feeding and cleaning. I am sorry that she is alone to do this, when all i can provide is words of comfort and encouragement. I would rather be covered in kitten poo and sick myself, that she might sleep soundly. But it can not be, today. So instead we must accept the situation, and whatever outcome that a universe without purpose or meaning may provide for small kittens found by chance.

I wrote this, because I learned a lot about my girlfriend today. I learned about her selflessness, and her unwavering commitment to love. I watched her neglect her work, her leisure time, and her uneasy peace with her parents. Purely, because it was the right thing to do. There wasn't even a decision making process, she knew that nobody else would help, so instantly committed herself to the little cat's care.

I know her heart is breaking when this small creature looks to her for help with its curious, questioning eyes, and she has no food or expertise to offer. She has done far more than anyone else would in the same situation, and I love her for it, so much. If our peculiar kitten does die, she won't forgive herself. She won't accept that without her, the kitten would have been dead far sooner. But it would have been, and it would have been a sad death; cold, wet and alone. I don't think it is beyond the emotional range of a small animal to feel desperate, hopeless, and forgotten. How painful.

It might seem senseless in any case. But the love that she poured into that little animal gave him a few hours with warmth, caresses and sustenance. As it looked up into her eyes from its nest in her lap, I knew it was at peace, and at home. And so she did a beautiful thing, all in all.

I want her to be back with me, soon. She deserves the same love in return.

More than ever, I realise that she is my own stray cat, who turned up unannounced and made a nest in my heart. And though sometimes the world is cold, she will always now find shelter in my words and love. And maybe now she can understand a little better why I should love her, instead of shopping for the persian cats of the world.

The homeless man outside Greggs bakers.

There's a million good deeds each day left undone. I tried to give a homeless guy half my sausage roll the other day, and he said no, he already had some from someone else, sitting cold in a bag beside him. Gave him the last of my money, which was virtually nothing. About 27p. I had waited until after buying my sausage roll. 'Every little helps' he said. I talked with him and we had a laugh, then went on my way feeling virtuous. Christmas after all.

I still remember that event, although it was the most pathetic attempt at charity. I wonder if that is for the benefit of my ego rather than genuine compassion. Because it is so exceptional, that I noticed it and remembered it.

Such acts should be so regular and instinctive that I don't even notice them. Let alone writing about them for public approval.

We all have disgusting self-obsession at our cores, which defiles the world with human filth. Those who wish to affect change, do so through the raising of their own flags for all to see, and decrying others while ignoring their own stench.

So whilst some blame the bankers, or some even 'the west', few turn the torch inward to illuminate the true blackness of their own soul. For what are you but a banker without the money.

Christmas is over.

This year has been the first time I've spent Christmas in England in three years.

Last year I was in Singapore, watching brown skinned skinheads defile a roast lamb Christmas dinner with chilli sauce, as we sat around the driveway of my shared house, incongruously tropical surroundings whilst the corporate christmas hell of Orchard Road blared in the background.

And the year before, recently heartbroken, I had locked myself away alone in Amsterdam, eventually persuaded out to Utrecht by friends, where I spent most of the time just trying to deal with the raw feeling in my chest which would otherwise rip open my nerves from my toes to my fingertips.

The year before then... I don't remember any more. That was a different life. And like those young kids who claim with a certain amount of plausibility, to be a reincarnated soul, I seem to be forgetting easily as the years go by. It's amazing how memory slips away.

I kept myself to myself this year. The family is made noisier by two growing children under five, and after nearly four decades of practice, my parents operate a militarily efficient Christmas kitchen that warrants little interference over the two days prior. We went through the motions, and it was pleasant. And yet something was a slight anticlimax. But not in a sorrowful way. Just, it came and went. Perhaps preoccupied with my own life, I didn't interact as I could have.

My dad noted this as well. All the preparation, then it's over. He said this with neither great disappointment, nor relief.

Perhaps the generations are shifting.

I remember my grandparents house when I was a child. It was perfect. My dad was one of five, so my cousins and I all had much fun at Christmas reunions. The feel of the tiles on my feet, the open fire, the smells and sounds of that place. They will stay with me forever. Our parents' generation turned the cogs of Christmas, but in retrospect clearly had their own preoccupations, rivalries, secrets. Of course I knew nothing of this. My grandparents simply existed, and with the other adults, read newspapers, talked, slept in their chairs, and through that gave us family, security and love.

This year was the first time I've noticed my father being challenged by organisation; dealing with the intricacies of my somewhat cavalier business model, to be precise. As we studied my accounts, plans, schedules and systems, he admitted he was 'never very good at this kind of thing.' As a former library manager that surprises me. I always looked to him as being genetically predisposed to tight organisation and paperwork.

Over the weekend, my mother related a famous family story from several years ago, but erroneously ascribed the role my grandmother had taken in that instance, to herself. Ironically the story was notable for my grandmother beginning to lose her mental faculties. I realise this is not inconsequential to future Christmasses.

I realise they are getting old. And with that comes some changes.

When my grandfather became old, my mother was no longer intimidated by him. He was a bit of a tyrant, but in his latter years became pitiful. She cared for him with much love, despite history. My own parents never showed me anything but love. Perhaps that is why I sometimes feel inadequate in comparison.

Similarly, I realise now that the high standards of behaviour and organisation that my parents have, might not even be so high as I thought. More surprising, is that perhaps they never were. Perhaps I have always presumed there was an unattainable success level, and became my own worst critic. It is hard to quantify the effect this has had on me over the years, but I feel it even today.

In any case, now I am grown up. And I no longer feel that pressure as keenly as I once did. There is instead a quiet sadness on realising we must soon invert roles, and then bid farewell.

I love my family very much. And there will come a time soon when I must provide more than I take. I will gladly do that. And I hope before then, to bring more love into the house, when my preoccupation finally comes home. Perhaps one day I might even bring more small cousins to play in the grandparents house. A thought I would never have considered seriously, several years ago. Who knows.

In the mean time, we go about our routines, keep our demons locked away behind polite words and formalities, and let the kids run and play ecstatically until they, and us, are exhausted. Then we return to our separate worlds, books, newspapers and thoughts in the silence; one by one retiring to bed, as the cold wind outside soothes the house under the dark blanket of night.

It was ever thus.

Happy Christmas. I love you.

And I like to hear myself say that out loud. Maybe you noticed. Let me explain why.

I am happy that, despite all rational thoughts and years of emotional self-control, I am still jealous that you're holidaying with another.

I'm happy that my brain apparently feels you're worth my getting jealous over. And I'm happy that I can smile about it because I still feel safe. I'm happy that I can give you this. I'm happy that you will be smiling your cute smile in interesting places, and that you will often be thinking of me. And I'm happy that there's someone you love, to take care of you.

I'm happy that I'm remembering what trust means.

I'm happy with the absolute certainty I have that you will be there at the end. It's that which gives me the strength for the journey. It brings joy to my steps on the path, whereas up until recently I wandered aimlessly, and lost, without even knowing it. I'm happy that you now light the way.

I'm happy that I can be there for you. I'm happy that I can begin to help you put right some of the wrongs. I'm happy that I am strong enough to meet you, and push you further than you've been alone. I'm happy that I can become your safety, your peace, and your home.

I'm happy that you are strong, but not demanding. That you are hurt, but not a victim. That you are smart, but humble. That you are intractable, but obliging.

I'm happy that you are.

I have everything I want this Christmas day, thanks to you.

Thank you.

<3  

The Revelation

22.12.13

The sun these days is gone before we get a chance to notice it.

This day, Sunday, I began with relative cheer, and worked languidly. It was enough to have a private audience with my darling and to see her face break into lines of smiles. At one point it almost felt satisfying. We consumed each others words and images greedily.

Again, we deconstructed, analysed, critiqued and proposed all manner of opinions on our budding relationship. Our anger, our passion, our frustration. We had shared a beautiful sunset, though she had to make do with the pixellated version. We felt close, gazed at each other, and let our hearts fill with each other.

And after it all, I was left empty again. Sometimes it is hard, there's no escaping it. But by the time I drove home, I was in poor spirits. I had worked sluggishly. The van packed on autopilot, motivation lost. I knew I should do more with my time. But it was late. And then the really negative thoughts began. Like a temptation of satan; seeping into my brain and spreading like a tumour. Eight months and then what. She will see you like this, then you know what happens. How long will you try to keep up the facade? You're not strong any more and you know it. The demon on my shoulder spoke to the darkness, and I was alone.

The cold rain made my windows fog from the inside, but I ran the wipers anyway. I thought of her. I became more sad.

I crept back into the house, where my father placed good food on the table and a warm welcome, but I could hardly make eye contact. I ate in silence and withdrew to my lair. I began to resent my own attitude. After all, what is there to complain about, really? Not a single physical problem, yet I see no light. I was ashamed of myself.

I began to realise what she meant by self-hate. Perhaps I also carry this strain of disease. More than I cared to admit. I wondered if perhaps we were ideally mis-matched. Perhaps we would only offer each other gloom. I wondered if it's true what the superstitious say, that there are negative demons. Maybe they were attached to she and I, and now they play together.

I reached for my virtual world, and found the connection dead. I was too ashamed to go and correct the online blockage.

I reached instead for the book. She had given me it. And strangely my mind rebelled against reading. It craved internet, oblivion, habit. Addiction. It was an almost visceral disgust with reading this book. I caught on to what was happening, and realised that were it not for the internet being down, I would have locked on to another couple of hours of oblivion in facebook and absurd cat photos. But there was no opportunity for my mind to do this. And so, some part of it rebelled and screamed... Interesting.

I closed my eyes and felt the sensation. I felt the pang of habit, held it aloft and examined it. Was ever a human urge so strong as an over-fed habit. I could see the habit in 3D in my mind's eye. It wriggled before me, like a maggot. It screamed and flipped. I realised I was on the verge of sleep. I allowed myself to breathe slowly, going ever so slightly under. Easily. I must have been tired. For how many hours was I in this unproductive, semi-zombie state?

How much of every day do I spend in this wasteland. Not mindful, but floating. Waiting. Of course. Always waiting for something, or someone. And my life slips by like that of a sleeper at a bus stop. I resisted sleep, meditated, and found I could flip my mind between states. Passive. Active. And there were more states, I felt. On the periphery of experience.

But as I concentrated, I felt these two mental states:

Passive. The unconscious slumping in front of the internet. The idle thoughts and half hearted work. The self which hates itself. The trailing off of enthusiasm. The black curtain. Unproductive consumption. The cave.

Active. The mindful state, the practice where intent, values, and purpose are focussed into a single beam. And as I held myself in this state, I felt her all around me. Her love, and my love for her, my beacon, my fuel. I used to burn in this state all the time, many years past. I used to be strong. My fires burned not only with love, but with righteous anger. They had been good days. Love, and rage.

I could have those days again. Or could I?

But how to maintain that, when a thousand pessimistic demons grasp for limbs, to pull you into the mud. A thousand parental curses echo through the years and hold you fast. Paralysis sets in and you turn to stone, slowly.

How to love, when fear is also present. It's nigh on impossible. Two opposites of the same continuum. How can I stay mindful when I feel her departure inevitable, some day. How can I stay on point, when I feel every criticism sting me so hard. She turns off my wipers. Some day she will have had enough.

I reminded myself of my exercise in this relationship. You are entitled to nothing. You will give selflessly. Maybe some day she will leave. So be it. You are strong enough not to be moved by her. Your deeper self was also not moved last time. You are her rock on which she may break her waves. But the rock never asked anything of the sea.

'I have had enough of that' my passive state screamed 'I am entitled to something – fuck that bitch, she will take it all! They always do! Have I not bled enough!'

Objectively, I listened to the fat, greedy maggot screaming. Impassionately, I crushed it.

How to live, and breathe, as love incarnate. That is the challenge. And then I heard my mind put forward two quotes, strongly.

'live for the sake of Allah'

followed quickly by another booming voice

'How could I not long for eternity. The ring of the return'.
The two fused into an understanding of divine love, creation itself, higher than any and without equal. And far above the religious sheep with their doctrines of hate and jealousy. Without a deity – who has need for idols? Only existence itself, in raw, bloody technicolor. The affirmation of life in all its tragedy, pain and beauty.

And for a moment there burned a love so bright that I knew I could use it to light my way, keep my focus. And that I was closer to full strength than I had realised. The demon shrank away, taking with him the spirit of gravity which had tainted me.

I came crashing out of my train of thought, suddenly awake. The whole process had taken seconds. Perhaps less.

'Well, that was weird'. I thought. And began writing.