The Gateless Gate

Donna Boo-Boo

Donna was sixteen

when she awoke

one Spring morning

to find a hole in her head

the size of a quarter.

“This is a sick joke,” she said.

The hole  gushed blood and water.

The night before it had been

an ordinary zit,

no big deal she thought,

no need to throw a fit.

She popped it,

smeared it with cream

and went to bed

hoping for a good dream;

kissing Johnny in the moonlight

maybe, or being  voted Queen.

The prom was only two days away.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

“What if it gets bigger” she thought.

 Her head ached, she felt queasy.

She remembered hearing

her Aunt Esther say,

“Never fool  around with those things,

especially when they’re on your forehead.”

She tossed and turned,

dreamed awful dreams,

woke up several times in between

to  check on her zit in the mirror.

“O God “ she thought,

“it seems to be growing.

I ought to have left it alone.”

In the morning when she opened her eyes

she was met with a grim surprise.

Her pillow case was bloody and wet

but that’s not all, it gets grimmer yet.

She felt for the zit and found in its place

the horrible hole, the big disgrace

and then her trembling index finger

got swallowed alive by the big humdinger.

She screamed bloody murder

and jumped out of bed.

The hideous hole in her head still bled.

She buried her face in her hands,

and cried in her own blood shed.

She whirled around the room

like a dervish, like a twister

It woke up her baby sister  who

pointed to the hole and said

“Uh-oh, Donna boo-boo.”

 “O my god, O my god, O my god”

screamed Donna,

again and again and again.

“Why me?  Why me?  Why me?”

screamed Donna,

on and on without end.

“What am I going to do?”

screamed Donna

“I can’t go to the prom like this.”

“I might as well kill myself now”

thought Donna

when in walked her baby Sis.

With a band aid in each little hand

she gave the wound  a kiss.

Donna took the band aids

and slapped them on like this:

    +

Miracle of Miracles!

When prom time came around

Donna’s wound had disappeared

and has not since been found.

© Ms Cosmiccat

The days come

and the days go

dragging me with them

The hours advance

and the hours retreat

moving so slow

shuffling their feet

There were plenty of tell tale signs, but I didn’t pick up on them. Only in retrospect can I say they were there. The house was given a good cleaning; carpets shampooed, mirrors polished, floors scrubbed, refrigerator made to look like new inside and out. Front porch swept and all clutter hidden away, out of sight, who knows where. I wondered about all of this as it was happening, the sudden burst of energy all about me, but never questioned it. I was just glad it was happening and I wasn’t the one doing it. It’s nice to have industrious children who give a damn what the house looks like.

And then there was the invitation to take me into the city for my 68th birthday; to visit the gallery of my favorite Philadelphia artist, to pick out a nice gift for myself from a South Street boutique. Have some coffee at Starbucks. Some ice cream at Hagen Daz. Wow! They sure were giving me the star treatment.

I didn’t catch on till we arrived back home and I saw all the cars parked at our house. My husband and all five of my children, their children, even their childrens' children were there; waiting for me. They brought so much food, including my favorite pineapple upside-down cake, we won’t be cooking for days. I sat in my throne like a queen and they gave me gifts. Wonderful gifts. My great grandson took his first steps from the coffee table to the ottoman.

At the end of the day, close to midnight, after all the goodbyes were said and all the hugs and kisses given, after the last car pulled away I stretched out on the porch swing and thought, “What a lucky woman.” I was wearing my new birthday earrings, eating my scrumptious birthday fudge, and listening at long last, to my new birthday album: Tell Tale Signs. It was sublime. My day and Bob’s music. Life couldn’t get any better.

The Story of Krazy Kat & Ignatz – From My Perspective

(With Respect and All Due Apologies to George Herriman)

Do you know the story of Krazy Kat and Ignatz?  Let me tell it to you from my perspective:

Krazy Kat was a cat, a feminine feline.  I don’t know who dubbed her “krazy”, but the name stuck, suited her well, sounded good, and so she kept it.  It had always been her name, her identity, even before Ignatz, who, when he came along, served to reinforce it.

Ignatz was a rat, a mouse really, a puny, underfed little fellow with a mean disposition underneath a charming façade. His full and given name was Ignatius T. Rat.  I’m not sure what the T stood for, but a good guess would be Tyraneous.  He was a little tyrant.

Krazy Kat loomed above Ignatz in size and stature, and was for the most part, a highly evolved and ethical creature, by her own estimation at any rate, and by her own standards, which, alas and alack, she found herself falling short of quite often because, you see, they were a bit high.  She had a tremendous ego and it was always hungry.  Because she could not depend on anyone else to feed it, she was forced to feed it herself, which made her appear conceited and self-serving, when actually she was not.  She just happened to like herself a whole lot and couldn’t understand why other people did not. She was terribly gullible though, when it came to friendship, and a hopeless romantic when it came to love.

She rationalized that she was too honest, and that she confided in too many people that could not be trusted; people who waited like fly-traps for her to divulge any little negative tidbit of personal failure that they could snap up, consume and regurgitate completely transformed into their own vomitus version of what she had revealed. Wholly out of context with the vast paragraphs of extenuating circumstances that preceded and followed the choice morsel that she had so obligingly tossed their way.

These people were never able to see the whole picture of who she was.  They took one line from one scene from one act of an ongoing production, and with no comprehension, no rumination, and not the slightest attempt to savor the elements of the morsel,swallowed it whole and completely detached from the reality to which it was connected and the good faith by which it was offered. 

And so, Krazy Kat, after much experience with mob mentality and the inequitable status quo of social interaction, too many bricks to the head, in other words, slowly at first, and then with greater speed and determination in her later years, began to withdraw and create for herself a reality that was more hospitable.  If it were not for the love of Ignatz, however dubious, and their marvelous, awe-inspiring, precious and life affirming offspring, Krazy Kat would have packed her bag and crawled out through a whole in the wall in searchof a more meaningful existence elsewhere on this planet, or who knows, perhaps upon another. 

Be·atif·ic Pronunciation: \ˌbē-ə-ˈti-fik\Function: adjective

Etymology: Latin beatificus making happy, from beatus happy, from past participle of beare to bless; perhaps akin to Latin bonus - good

1:  of, possessing, or imparting beatitude

2 : having a blissful appearance

This is one of the, if not the, most beautiful photographs of Dylan I have ever seen.  It has the look of being painted by Rembrandt. The mingling of darkness and light give the composition enormous depth which is transferred by a kind of visual osmosis into the subject, producing, or perhaps capturing, the austere, the transcendant, the saintly quality of the man.  It's as if he is stting alone, meditating in a candle lit room, when suddenly a door opens and his state of blissful concentration  is interrupted by an intruder; very much the story of his life.  He has been used and abused.  He has been misrepresented, hated and betrayed.  He has lost the very things in life he loved the most, the things that give life meaning.  This is the portrait of a living icon, no doubt about it. A man who loves solitude, a hermit living the life of a troubador. A man who daily contemplates the cup of his never ending tour. This is the portrait of a man trying to get to Heaven before they close the door. 

"Fascism, which was not afraid to call itself reactionary... does not hesitate to call itself illiberal and anti-liberal."

Benito Mussolini

Broke Down Engine in a World Gone Wrong

I'm confused by many negative comments made by fans in response to a short blog essay entitled "Bob Dylan and Evil" and I'm wondering if the people who made those comments actually read the essay, or if they did read it,  if they comprehended  what they read.  I'm more inclined to believe they skimmed over the blog with prejudice, having gotten  hung up on its title because of seeing the word "Evil" in such close proximity to the name of their hero, assumming it was a defamation of Dylan's character instead of the tribute that it actually is. 

Also, I believe, there is a pervasive notion among fans or followers of any hero or super hero (dieties included) that true fans of Dylan, like true believers of many  religions,  would not deign to understand the nature of their  Hero or thier God.  To many Dylan  fans of that mind-set, Dylan's music should stand alone and no one should seek by their own interpretation of his words,  an understanding of his nature.  God is God and Bob is Bob. God created the world and Bob created the music.  It's that simple. Don't over think it.  Nobody can presume to know God, and nobody can presume to know Dylan. Anyone who claims to have a few well-founded insights and dares to make them known is  foolish, arrogant and vain. They deserve to be heckled and/or shunned.  Their ideas and opinions should be trivialized as if they were small bony fish on the end of a stick being roasted over a fire by  a Neanderthal, or a fur ball being coughed up by a mangy, half-crazed, one-eyed cat. 

What's wrong with using Bob's own words  from the linear notes of "World Gone Wrong" to try and understand him or know him better, in this case, to understand his views on the nature of evil? Since when is it foolishness to try and understand someone you love, respect or admire by their words, music, art, actions? Isn't that the highest respect we can pay another human being? And what's wrong with sharing your interpretation or understanding of Bob's lyrics and writings and comparing them with your own views and with world events past and present?

Is this some kind of fascist mind-set where people are suspected and accused of being on the side of evil because they express their ideas freely? Are Dylan fans expected to be bumps on a log, sitting on a stump with their mouths open but nothing coming out but drivel and drool? "Aw gee, I'm too dumb and lowly to understand Dylan and nobody else should try to either." It makes me wonder how wide spread these expectations are? Who knows the full extent of this suppression, oppression, and repression of the intellect by the thought police.

If thinking you know Bob makes you evil, even just a little bit, then Dylan has been wasting all of his time and all of his words and all of his music. Poet's and writers want to be understood. It's what motivates them. It's what keeps them alive and creative. They agonize over choosing the best words, the perfect words, to express their feelings, their relationships, their identity. It is their desire to be understood. Everything they write is primal and autobiographical to begin with, no matter how they disguise it to make it acceptable, palatable, comprehensible.

In order to grasp wisdom you have to understand it first. It doesn't just float up to the surface unattached from its source like the answers in one of those black balls that you shake. If you fail to understand the wisdom bearers, if you won't even make an attempt to understand them, if you think that thinking you understand them makes you or someone else Evil or Foolish, you become like the blind following the blind. That kind of thinking is very self-limiting and incredibly sad. Incredibly, incredibly sad. It is also dangerous and destructive - a perfect example of a broke down engine in a world gone wrong.

This charcoal portrait of you was done by my oldest daughter in 1975 when she was sixteen. She gave it to me for Christmas and it's one of my favorite possessions. It's been hanging in our hallway for thirty-five years. Wow! That amazes me. I never really thought about it in terms of age before. It seems like it's always been there, like your music. Your gettin' old Bob, but you're holding up good and none the worse for wear and tear. I look at your picture every morning on my way down stairs and wonder where the time went. It seems like only yesterday my daughter was a budding young artist wanting to give me the best Christmas present ever. When you see people and things every day you sometimes take them for granted. You have to take them out of their usual environment every once in a while to get a new perspective on what they mean to you and why. Today I took you out to the garden for a little fresh air. It wasn't long before everyone started asking, "What's missing?" They realized that something was different in the hallway, but couldn't quite figure out what it was. An empty space was in your place. We're gonna miss you when your gone, Bob.

Happiness and Misery: Choice or Chance? 

Complete the Statement

1. The real problems of the world

a.       will never be solved.

b.      are blown up out of proportion.

c.       can surely be solved.

d.      are in the hands of God.

e.      are beyond the comprehension of ordinary people.

2.  I would be very happy if I could only find

a.      a  way of extracting calories from food.

b.      true love.

c.      a  million dollars.

d.      a  solution for world peace.

e.      a  nice home in a nice neighborhood.

3.  I get really bummed out (depressed) when

a.      I think about world poverty.

b.      I speak and nobody listens.

c.       there’s nothing to do on Saturday night.

d.      I run out of money.

e.      there’s nothing good to eat in the refrigerator.

4.  Life is

a.       the opposite of death.

b.      a  constant struggle to adapt to an ever changing environment.

c.       what you make it.

d.      relatively short and meaningless.

e.      totally awesome.

5.  Time

a.      heals all wounds.

b.      flies when you’re having fun.

c.       waits for no one.

d.      is not created or destroyed.

e.      is heavy on my mind.

6.  When I’m miserable, it’s usually because

a.      someone has invaded my space.

b.      I’m bored.

c.      I ate something that disagrees with me.

d.      someone made me feel  inferior.

e.      I did something I regret.

7.  People would be a lot happier if

a.      they were more careful about the foods they eat.

b.      the wealth of the world was more evenly distributed.

c.       they could learn to make better decisions.

d.      low cost housing was more readily available.

e.      they lived by the Golden Rule.

Occupation:________________________     Age:_________   M/F____

Survey by Ms Cosmiccat

Members of  University of Virginia's Men's Lacrosse carry Yeardley Love's casket to her funeral.  This bothers me greatly considering that one of their players is accused of her brutal murder.

Why instead were members of the Women's Lacrosse team not the pall bearers?  Look at them.  They are strong and healthy young women.  It seems a disgrace to me and an insulting last kick in the teeth to Love. 

http://www.mscosmiccat.com/yeardleylove.htm

sau·cy

Word Origin & History

1508, "resembling sauce,"later "impertinent, cheeky" (1530), from sauce(q.v.). The connecting notion is the fig. sense of "piquancy in words or actions." Cf. sauce malapert "impertinence" (1529), and slang phrase to have eaten sauce "be abusive" (1526). Also cf. salty in same senses.

saucy in a sentence

He is a loud, saucy brute who doesn't show a lot of respect to his elders.

adj.   sauc·i·er, sauc·i·est

Impertinent or disrespectful

Urban Dictionary:

To be flat out drunk, not blacked out but not just tipsy. Refering to being "on the sauce" (liquor).

Alright let's go downtown to the bars now I'm already good and saucy.

12 E Market St

West Chester, PA 19382

(610) 696-9770

Don't know what the food tastes like.  I was too freaked out  by the big guy behind the counter.  After my husband and I ordered roast beef sandwiches with a side of onion rings, and were sitting on stools at the front window, I walked a few feet over to the beverage refrigerator to see what kind of drink's they had to offer. I was craving a root beer.  It was about 4pm and we were the only customers in the shop.  The burly, mean-faced guy came lumbering towards me (think Charles Laughton in the Hunchback of Notre Dame, minus the sweet, gentle nature concealed within his grotesque form)  waving his arms in a back and forth motion to shoo me away and saying  "No!  No! This is my space!"  in a manner and tone that took me by surprise and set me on the verge of tears.  I was literally shaken and left immediately saying "Make mine to go" and went outside to wait.  My husband came out with the food and after I pulled myself together I went back inside to have a few words with the guy about his people skills. It was futile. He refused to listen or let me finish a sentence.  I felt like I was staring into the face of brutality and ignorance personified.  He made the Soup Nazi look like Casper Milk-Toast. I gave my roast beef sandwich to the dog. He seemed to like it.  My husband didn't eat his yet but he said the onion rings sucked. After we left we met up with our son (who is about the same age as the brute behind the counter at Saucy's) and our daughter-in-law.  .  They  took us to the High Street Cafe where they treat you kindly and feed you good.  When I told my son about my experience at Saucy I saw that look come into his eyes.  The look he always gets when someone treats his mother badly.  He wanted to pay a visit to Saucy but we talked him out of it.  The best thing I got out of my visit to "Mr Saucy's" was a great and renewed sense of how incredibly lucky I am to have such a wonderful son who is not only big and strong, but kind natured, and who treats all people with respect. The worst thing I got, the thing that sucked a billion times more than Saucy's onion rings, was a sense of sadness brought on by having come face to face with one of  the growing number of rude and aggressive bullies populating our planet.  If you're a little old lady who's not picky about your food and who enjoys being verbally abused and bullied by a big, scary dude, by all means, go to Saucy.

See my reviews on Yelp: http://www.mscosmiccat.com/reviews.htm

Sometimes  we have to tolerate the unacceptable, we have to work around it, until we find a way to eliminate it or make it acceptable. First we have to recognize and acknowledge that a thing, something, is unacceptable, and this is a very difficult first step.  The recognition process often begins with a nagging uneasiness which we attempt to shrug off;  we have a hunch that something is not quite right but it’s all so confusing and we just can’t seem to sort it out.  A little further along in the process the nagging sensation becomes more of a physical presence like a headache or a blow to the solar plexus by an unseen fist that tries to knock the wind out of us.  We are becoming convinced in increments that we are doing battle with an insidious and unrelenting foe that seems to be right around the corner.  It’s all we can do to keep ourselves from pounding on the walls and shouting, “THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!”  But what is “THIS”?  Until we know what THIS is, we must keep our mouths shut and tolerate it.

At times we will find ourselves in the minority with the majority trying to persuade us, even pressure us, into believing that the unacceptable is acceptable.  “Everything’s cool, man.  Just relax.”    Or, “Get with the program!”   Sometimes the  persuasion can be more subtle, we may not even be aware of it.  When persuasion grows more aggressive it becomes pressure, and even then we are sometimes not fully aware that  “the pressure“ is being applied, or we sense that we are under pressure, but are not certain of its source or who the real perpetrators are.  We have things to do, we don’t have time for all the bullshit.  So we just throw it into the big bag of amorphous, unspecified angst and carry it around thinking that when the time is right we will dump out the contents of the bag and examine, identify and name each article; make a determination of what to keep and what to throw away, what to accept and what not to accept.  But the time is never quite right for most of us, and so we tolerate, and therefore accept, the unacceptable by default, which is a catch-all term for laziness, ignorance, denial,  blind ambition, and a preponderance of fear.