Whatever They Think

Even cutting down living trees for building primitive, tiny structures seems violent to me now — something a survivalist might build in the woods. Picking up riffraff isn’t quite as bad but is there enough for everyone?
Considering that there are billions of people on the planet and the billions upon billions of trees that’ll need to be chopped down for their not-always-tiny homes, seems like considering war.
Can’t we just build everything with hemp?
It seems that hemp might have made itself available for this kind of abuse because it responds so well to it — cycling in almost no time while a tree needs so much time to become a tree with plans to be the air we breathe and home to other living everything-the-world-needs-kind-of leaves and barks and seeds and critters crawling and climbing to their tallest heights and down around their feet and in and out everywhere.
Bamboo could be used as it grows fast too — and rocks except that lots of things live under rocks and moving them means moving someone’s home.
It’s just a violent world we live in.
Violence everywhere that seems impossible to steer clear of.
The Jains take nonviolence to extremes and even mask their mouths to keep from killing things in the air they breathe.
When did humans become so nonchalant about killing whatever they think deserves killing?
I guess I should have been a butterfly or Princess Pollyanna.


The Earth’s Cores

The morning jumping of cats off the highest shelves that they can access so that they can then pounce on their human like they are practicing gymnastics and trying to stick a landing, seems to exert enough pressure that it could force the change of the direction of one of the Earth’s cores — unless, of course, the Earth is hollow — then they may just effect a China Syndrome.

“Get up human, I’m bored or tired of seeking your attention or I’m just hungry. That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“I’m up, I’m up!” exclaims the human. “Wait a minute, five more minutes…Pleeease?” The intonation going up on the last syllable, as if begging. “Who are you to boss me? Oh, yeah, right, you’re the cat’s meow. How’d I forget that!? You are the roost’s ruler — the Queen of Sheba — and  you, Mr. Mouser are the King of Siam, aren’t you?”

The cats didn’t even bother to look back smirking as they trotted off, leading the way to the kitchen.

It might be nice to be like a cat and have so little regard for other people’s feelings. Dogs seem to care. She was thinking how nice it would be to have a little dog again. Not that she didn’t love the cats — they are just so nonchalant. Cats always seem to be wanting to get away. Dogs, well, dogs seem to want to stay. Then she remembers how impossible it is to dislodge the weight of two cuddled cats from her feet each night she tries to sleep in winter or impossible to turn and no matter how she tries to scat them, they come back like rubber bands.

She then starts to wonder how anyone can know what’s at the center of the Earth. What’s the farthest ever drilled? What would it take to change the directional spinning —  or if it is hollow, is there a city in there? How come a cat hasn’t found it and come back to smirk and then not tell about it? Maybe one has, she thinks — cats are good at keeping secrets but they don’t seem to favor cold and isn’t the entrance at the north pole — or is it south? Maybe both and elsewhere, like Germany or Sweden? Again, ticking up at the end of a syllable for appearing to ask a question or intimating going further in the discussion — the way Australians speak in generAL — as obnoxious as a cat can be — sometimes.

The girl cat comes to cuddle on the crook of her elbow, mushing the spot she wants while purring. She whispers little words to make the cat’s paws curl and her whiskers tickle. She can tell that the little kitty likes it. So much for cats not responding — is that caring?

The cat jumps off once she’s had enough or doesn’t like the kiss upon her forehead.

Yes, it would be nice to not care about much else other than where one gets one’s food or whatever else they want. Someone says it’s hollow, someone says it’s not — then fighting, fighting, fighting who’s the rightest. It is fun to think about, without the fighting.

Then the cats bat each other and go off in equal and opposite action. They’ll come back again a little later for a cuddle and to rest upon a human’s feet assisted by the Earth’s cores — their little mass felt greater by its gravity. There will certainly be more gymnastics practice in the morning.


the cat's meow