Desperately Discontented Omphalos
by Henry Rosenbush on Dec.31, 2011, under eXisTenTiaLNihLisT
‘O clear and soul-reviving star!
Whose sight doth try my trust,
If thou thy light from me debar,
Instantly die I must.’Don Quixote, Miquel de Cervantes
eXisTenTiaLNihLisT
Turn off all the technology.
Crush the computer into smithereens.
Insurgency must end this nightmarish existence of systematic destruction of the personage.
Smash digital cameras of egotistical accomplishments.
Drive the luxurious vehicles of ruthless organizational egocentrics head on into the oncoming traffic of malicious vilification.
Splinter the high definition three dimensional television screens of overwhelming depravity masquerading as entertainment.
Electrocute micro chipped implants and gratuitous violence from the male brain.
Read by candlelight and only books written before you were born.
Freedom is an illusion.
During WW II, concentration camp victims rightfully would have seen it differently; however, today, freedom does not exist, even if governments, advertising agencies, universities and the media try and spin it.
It always has been and always will be so relinquish the illusionary conceit that we are special.
We are not extraordinary.
Thousands of years of evolution and we barely can see beyond the darkness that envelops our miniscule brain pans. Undoubtedly, we have made great strides with our masturbatory armaments of animosity across the surface of the earth.
Detestation is in every home and every heart and yet we pray for forgiveness that is not imminent and consider an incorporeal resurrection that only exists as an architectural design to ensnare true believers with trepidation and domination.
Focus from the revelation that this miasma of ambiance, without suffocation, will be avoided by a few but not the multitudes of sordid conformity.
We are not alone in the universe; however, we are exiled to its farthest realms so as to not contaminate intelligence that has learned to exist without hatred, money and religion and politics ruling their spirits.
An electromagnetic burst of energy would do wonders for this ailing world. It needs to heal and while we think we are helping we are only prolonging the agony. As the planet earth completes its reversals of its recent alignment it will be bliss at last.
Transcend sadness with gladness that in the New Year it will be the finale of privacy. We gave up all rights long before machinery imprisoned our minds and souls. We enjoy the suffering and pain too much to empty the glass of light beers and irradiated seafood.
Pour the misery of defeat from the amber glass of oppressive disillusioned assimilation and annihilate the bastards of pretentiousness; we are not self-important but utterly selfish and rather than chivalrous, boorish self-centered superficiality.
So toast to 2012 with more than inviolate dynamism and search for meaning beyond your overconfidence.
No happy new year from me, dear readers, just a reminder that the tapestry of fate is woven with the bloodshed of billions of lost souls who are no longer here to forewarn that even Mrs. Wiggs understood the significance of living in the cabbage patch.
Liberation will come when only a handful of sentient beings remain on the new world to replenish and respect this lovely orb in space.
Stale leftovers from earlier madness:
excerpted from my faux novella “semi-clad breakfast at tiffany’s pomegranate”
It was at the precise moment that Henri’s forehead unintentionally calculatedly struck the left side of the door frame that he reached an epiphany.
He was an erotically narcissist strutting egotist.
If other’s were sheepishly attired wolves incognito he was a cross dressed antediluvian carnivore posing as a door to door salesman of affable misogyny gift wrapped in pink nylon ribbons to obscure erroneous intent.
In the span of three days Henri had seduced, romanced and abandoned the lesbian lover of his cousin, hydroplaned his best friend’s 2005 Bentley into a lamp post and ripped off his condo-renting brother’s tenant’s of their primo marijuana knowing they could not report it to the authorities without arrest and eviction for violating the criminal activities clause of their lease.
Beneath the sexual misanthropy and escalating conduct of self-satisfied insecurity and delusion was a cheerless buffoon who needed a face forward fender-bender gender reassignment.
In Memory of My Friends Henny, Biancho and Uncle Wally
by Henry Rosenbush on Nov.14, 2011, under MIFW-B
Uncle Wally Windsor
Henny Ben Tassus and Bianco Banco Kittery (Dali-Ernst Art)
Henny Ben Tassus, Biancho Banco Kittery of the Maine Kitteries and Uncle Wally Windsor were all euthanized today.
Four other cats died this year: Cali, who was struck and killed by a vehicle, near my office in October, only six weeks after birthing four kittens; Simone de bon de Bont died on Valentine’s Day, and Dali-Ernst, who was the resident artistic feline, finally succumbed three months ago, after surviving the April tornado that devasated East Tuscaloosa. Simone had cancer while all others suffered from Feline AIDs.
Henny’s mother, Kara Mia Pia, was euthanized last year, suffering with cancer.
Henny and Kara were born in Florence, SC, Simone, Jefferson City, TN, and the others all born locally. Uncle Wally, was the father of the tuxedo cats Tippy Van Helsing, Pink Martini, and femme fatale felines: Kitja,Katja,PinkToo ans ShyGirl, whose mother, the all black Cous Cous LaPress, is sitting near me as I try to compose this tribute without tears or regrets.
The photos were taken last year when all three were in better health, with Biancho coming out for a photo; however, as should be expected, Feline AIDs is contagious and Biancho was kept separate from the others while Wally was a feral cat from Windsor Drive, another neighborhood decimated by the twister. Only recently did Uncle Wally become trusting enough to allow me to caress and hold him and for the only time in his long life - he was at least ten - he came into the house last night and slept on a lawn chair.
Henny and Biancho were born in 2000, with the latter one of Kitja One’s litter at my apartment complex. She is still alive, an un believable feat for a feral cat living in an area of speeding UA students. I have buried at least eight cats from 1987 through last month; all victims of fast driving and danerously.
He knew the end was inevitable and I believe he did not want to be alone. Yesterday, while exterior renovations were ongoing, vultures could be seen circling nearby. It was an eerie and profound experience knowing they smelled impending death and, as nature does, waited patiently for the end.
This is probably the only post I will write this week as the grieving process will take time and I am too emotional to continue.
Thanks to my partner, Natalie, for her courage and resilence. She took the three cats to the vet while I was at the house with the workers. I was more upset than grateful because I was selfish, wanting one more hug, one more caress, one final farewell. For those of you with animal companions - I loathe the term pets - do not make the same mistake I did. The longer you wait with the terminally ill the more difficult it is to let them go. The other cats are quiet tonight; they all know. Biancho’s sister, Calico Guggenheim Kittery, Cous Cous, Precious Phantasma and Pink are each dealing with the losses, too, while outside, Talia Biscuits, Kitja Coy, Tippy and Tygrr Tygrrr know their companions are gone…their memories last in the twilight of November 14th Two Thousand Eleven forever. Their life forces have returned to the cosmos from whence they came.
Each was sweet and loving and shared much pleasure. At a later time, I will share some wonderful stories about the trio’s adventures. They were all members of the Milo Institute of Feline Well-Being, an organization created, partly as a support group, but mostly as an opportunity to write about my love of felines. It would become the second post I wrote when the Café opened, in November, 2006, as a creative outlet to help me cope with care giving for my mother who suffered from, and later died from, Alzheimer’s disease.
Hug your companions tonight and do not take them, or indeed your own lives, for granted. Life is brief enough without love, friendship and trust.
If you want to help animals of all kind, check the two ads on the bottom right sidebar and help.
Finally, some may wonder how I came to have so many companions? I rescued Talia, Cous Cous, Biancho, Calico, Kitja Coy and Precious while Henny was Tala’s companion who came to live here for the last three years of his life. The others became my feline mishpoca and at this time, the final sentence, they are quieter than usual, having eaten dinner minus their friends.
If all humans could feel the same camaraderie that existed here…..
…..well, that is a thought for another essay; another day.
-
Nourish Your Mind
