A cat in the wilderness

There is a stray cat that comes to visit us every day for food. At first
we named him Sylvester, but I started calling him Little Boy for short.
Little Boy is pretty scraggly looking...about as thin as a cat can get
without showing ribs. Something is wrong with his voice box because he
can't meow or purr. Thus the only thing he can do to let us know he's
hungry is stand, at soldier-like attention waiting on the front stoop.

Only rarely does he let us pet him and that's usually when he's eating. We
think he'd like to be an indoors cat the way he comes to put his nose
against the screen door when he's done eating. But when we open it,
inviting him in to the promise of a guaranteed meal, a comfortable bed and
companionship, he just stands there starring in.

Until recently I'd been feeling a bit like Little Boy, waiting silently if
a bit skittishly for the free handout from a higher power and then
waiting/wanting something else but not knowing what it is. It's driven me
to distraction of late.

I know there is something more but I can't quite figure out what it is, let
alone name it. In my frustration, I have found my voice but all it does is
whine or complain. Nothing productive really. Still, it's something.

What's the change? Where is it?

The Mighty fall all the time.

As I watched the infamous Barbara Walter's special last week, the day that
my high priestess of all things home and hearth was sentenced to a
crucifying 5 months in jail, I felt with an unsettling surety that St.
Martha of Turkey Hill Road, was in fact guilty.

While Mother Superior Barbara asked the penetratingly hard questions,
Martha's eyes looked down and away even as her mouth said she
couldn't comment due to her pending appeals.  She leaned slightly
forward, her voice, childlike, plaintive to Barbara's stern,
"can't-pull-the-wool-over-my-eyes" stance.

I didn't need a court to tell me if she did it or not. I was raised
Catholic and I've been a female human too long not to notice a guilty
conscience when I see it.

The scene reminded me of the infamous press conference Bill Clinton
gave back in the day when he said, unequivocally, "I did not have sex
with that woman". Perhaps it was a reaction to his intonation.
Maybe it was the phrase "that woman". Whatever, I knew with a hugely
sinking heart that the one person who had made America seem good
again, the person who  restored my belief in, if not great, good
government, was fatally flawed.

Then, there's also the amazingly fast and engaging Marion Jones,
accused of doping in the past. Did she do it?  I don't know if she
actually did take a contraband substance...but you have to be
emotionally blinkered to not know that there is something that she
feels ashamed of, something that infected her mood so completely that
it affected the performance of the super athlete during the recent
Olympic trials. Her painful ignominy was virtually telegraphed every
time she appeared before reporters to address the allegations.

From my vantage point,  I reckon it's nearly impossible to be a decent
human being, capable of good works, fantastic feats and/or beautiful
creations without also sporting a pretty vulnerable Achilles Heel.
Present company included.

Mission Maxwell Park

California Gold

redesign for LisOnLife

I'm feeling good about this re-work...it is more in life with where I want
to go with the site.
--> LisOnLife.

I'm trying hard to become that new person I'm always talking about...