"BECAUSE SOMETIMES, YOU'RE NOT THERE..."

...responded one of my oldest neighborhood friends when I asked why he didn't call more often. Understood. And well appreciated.

But, if he (or you) were inside my head and/or in possession of just some of the memories it carries, I can assure you, none of you would want to "be there" either.

"But Paula, you're such a creative person!" Really? Really? If I had a choice of being "creative" or a complete, talent-less dolt, just take a guess which choice I'd make?

Because, in most cases, with 'talent' comes some form of suffering ~ you think too much, feel too much and too deeply, forever questioning what cannot be answered.
And rarely have the good fortune of making enough money to escape the torment. So you choose to "not be there" more often than not because you just can't be there...the pain can be crushing, which often makes casual conversation impossible.

I once attempted to give an enormously talented and creative person a 'pep talk' to rally him out of his despair. I never forgot his heated answer: "TELL IT TO VAN GOGH!!"

Ah, but Vincent Van Gogh took his own life at an early age...had he stuck around, who knows what could have been? Or is that yet another unanswerable question?

I can only hope that poor Vincent found the peace he wanted...and that he has no way of knowing the obscene amounts of money that are paid for his brilliant work today.

In this world, more often than not, 'creative people' are worth more dead than alive.

A cruel irony if ever there was one...

ECCENTRIC, CONCENTRIC CATS!

Miss Quincy, the Quintessential Cat

Just what is it with cats and beds? How do they find the exact center of the bed, regardless of where you're sleeping, and nestle in, forcing you to navigate every square inch of your own bed in order to be able to fall back to sleep (if you can sleep at all)?

I've slept in so many different positions in order to accommodate Miss Quincy: head on pillow, legs diametrically sticking out of one side or the other; one leg over Quincy, so as not to disturb Her Royal Highness; feet squished into one tiny corner, only to wake up and find she's now confiscated even that limited foot space. One has to be a contortionist to sleep with these little screwballs.

I once had two cats, Francie and Neeley, who became earmuffs on either side of my pillow...and on a hot, sticky, summer night, so it wasn't for the warmth of my head. And my sweet little Joey, who hooked his leg over one of my ankles, just to make sure his rescue from the harsh streets wasn't a dream from which he'd awaken. And Jerry, another desperate rescue, who slept so close to me, we seemed to be purring in rhythm.

I will never understand why some people "hate" cats. To quote Leonardo daVinci, "Even the smallest feline is a masterpiece."

I've known many cats in my time, and I've loved every single one of them unconditionally. And they may not show it, as dogs do, but they return that love ten-fold.

You just have to understand that they're psychological animals, and communicate on a whole different level than other animals. Or as I once saw on a greeting card...

"Cats ~ merely animals, or a higher life form?"

Couldn't have phrased it better myself.

Okay, time to wrestle some bed space from Quincy.....! Good night and GOOD LUCK.

THE BLUES...

The "blues"...a human condition confined to just a select few, or do we all experience that unidentifiable sadness on a somewhat regular basis?

And just how long are the blues supposed to last? A few days, weeks, months...or years on end?

I learned about the blues before I even knew what to call them...from musicians and their music, which I found comforting because I didn't feel so alone.

Then I found out that prolonged blues are called "chronic depression" and that there are magic pills one can take for that particular condition. But is that cheating oneself of an exquisite, if excruciating, life experience or saving oneself the agony of too many blue periods far too many times?

People are quick to give advice about those long stretches of blue periods. "Don't let them get you down" or "This too shall pass" or "It's just part of the human condition, get used to it" etc. etc. etc. And, in some cases, they're correct.

But do they know, deep down inside, the horrific suffering the blues can cause a person's soul...? Do they know that there are days when you'd rather be stone dead than feel that abyss of not knowing when, if ever, they will end? If they did, I don't think they'd be so cavalier about dismissing them.

And then I learned that there is also an explanation for chronic sadness:  Dysthymia.

From the NY Times: "For more than 7 million Americans, life is no bowl of cherries, the glass is nearly always half empty, the clouds have no silver lining. They have a little-known and often medically ignored yet treatable emotional disorder called dysthemia.

Dysthymia (pronounced dis-THIGH-mee-a) is a mild but chronic depression that can spread a veil of sadness over people's lives for years, even decades, seemingly from the cradle to the grave."

From the cradle to the grave ~ I'll say!

So what if those magic pills stop working? What if that "treatable emotional disorder" is, in the final analysis, not treatable at all? What then? Do we just curl up into a ball and hope to die, or keep trying to find yet another magic potion that will cure this monstrous 'disorder'?

I don't have the answer to any of the above questions...just more questions. When-where-how-why?

I'm pretty sure I know the answer to when, where and how. But I'll be damned if I know how to answer why...

"But I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..." ~ Don McLean, Starry Starry Night.