Somehow cat-hoarding and cat ladies came up at work today. I probably got the conversation going. I tried to remember a recent news article about a very large number of (feral?) cats living on a beach and being fed by some activists. Trying to find this article on the internet, I came across a few other rather interesting stories about cat-hoarding and cat ladies. But before we get to those fascinating tidbits, I have a confession to make. For a certain period of my pre-teen years I thought it would be truly magnificent to have a house full of cats. Say, 50 or more. This dream of mine evolved into the idea of having a room in a house devoted to the cats. The cat room would be large with a glass wall for observation of the felines. That moment in time, thankfully, has passed. I can unequivocally state that I no longer want a cat room. Nor do I desire to have, say, 50 cats. However, I still think that having about 10 cats would be quite pleasant. And now that I've opened myself up to ridicule, I can move on to linking to a few cat-hoarding and cat ladies stories.

First, the Moscow cat lady. I suggest turning the volume way up on this one. Between the cats meowing and their feet hitting the ground, you get a nice noise-collage.

Second, the Wikipedia entry on Animal Hoarding. Read and learn, people. You just might have the mental illness.

Third, while searching for the feral cat story mentioned above, I found this blog. (Go to August 23, 2007 for the cat-hoarding post.) The author examines daily life – wedgies, Don Imus, and cat hoarding, etc. – through the prism of Christian scripture. Every moment is a teaching moment.

FDR and Bob

Tonight I drank a few beers and had dinner face to face with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He sat across the bar from me. There was no stopping him: hanging there on the wall like he has for millions of other Americans, his calm, self-assured, elemental presence greeted me every time I looked his way. Another three letter man -- JFK -- surrounded him. (How many three letter men do we have?) In this corner of Boston, JFK may not be gainsaid. He invented the wheel as far as these folks are concerned. Or at least he didn’t back down when that shoe-banging Russian tried to get smart in our backyard. But while FDR was in front of me and JFK was all around me, middle-aged versions of Moe, Larry, and Curly sat next to me. On my right to be exact. First to my right was a self-described “vengeful” man. After 9-11, specifically on 9-12, he would have bombed Saudi Arabia and Iraq until nothing existed but the battered land. The man to his right thought this a fine idea. But being the pragmatist of the bunch, he thought it far more feasible to just take over the oil fields of these two countries, and then let us have gas for “6 cents a gallon,” and drive as much as we want. I never heard from Curly. But Mr. Pragmatic did call him a Francophile and said “what’s next, you’re going to tell me you want us to have a 35 hour work week?” It was during this meeting of the minds that a harmonica made its appearance. Not for them, but for me. Straining out of the speakers, an early Bob tune played. And all I could hear of it was his harmonica. The sound was quite low -- just enough to provide a very vague background to the poli. sci. 101 class at the bar. But when Bob and his harmonica arrived there was no mistaking that high-pitched, insistent sound. And for a brief moment I was transported back to the 60s. I had a dim understanding of what it must have felt like to think Dylan was Truth. Specifically, the dissonant chord Dylan must have struck and how that chord united so many around a shared rejection of a racist, chauvinistic society. I can’t say (or maybe I’m just incapable of saying) more than this right now. I sat there incredulous as three men self-righteously destroyed the world. (Who proudly says “you know I’m a vengeful motherfucker”?) I wanted to laugh at the inanity of the pronouncements, but I looked over at Franklin and all I could think about was the utter lack of dignity.

Since moving to Boston in 1995, I’ve enjoyed the company of friends during Thanksgiving. This year was different. While I did receive an invitation to share the Thanksgiving day meal with the Sorella’s gang (I probably go there 100 days in the year, twice a week, every week: they know me). I decided I would go it alone this time.

The holiday break was a series of encounters with strangers, a friend from the past, and a rabbit.

First, the rabbit. A rabbit in JP. (I should write the children’s book, with the rabbit modeled, of course, on the trickster Max.) Walking down the sidewalk of Pershing Road, I had the hushed pleasure of meeting this small, calm creature. Seeing the little bun – four feet away – I went still and focused my gaze upon it. Thankfully, it did not move. Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets oil-slick and adding peculiar weight to the fallen leaves. Pershing is not a well-lit street, but the light we shared added to the quiet reverence of the moment. Alone together, we watched each other for a minute. Taking a chance on having him run, I offered a small Barry Lopez bow of acknowledgment and gratefulness. He didn’t move, so we continued our meeting. Like the local squirrels, he is probably so used to humans (and humans feeding him) that the quick dart for safety response to us has been at least partially supplemented by a wary acceptance. I would guess that we stared intently at one another for 3-4 minutes. And then, just like the end to a casual conversation with a friend, he said goodbye and took a slow-hop to the edge of the sidewalk. But he didn’t leave. He stood there for another minute, watching me watch him. I wondered where he lived. Where was he going on this damp night? Where did he sleep? Whom was he returning to? So many worlds, so close to me. But he has his life and I have mine, so off he went with another easy hop.

On Thanksgiving day I decided to make biscuits from scratch. Not having the ingredients at hand, I walked down to stop&shop. On the way there I thought about my friend Bubba. When I worked at Gutman Library in the late 90s I would see him on the corner of Brattle and Church, standing outside the grocery store that once occupied the spot. Bubba would stare straight ahead. He had small eyes and usually kept a few days growth of beard. Close to his body, he would extend his cupped-hand. He never asked for money. I don’t recall our first conversation, but I do recall that we laughed from the start. We shook hands that day. His life was not an easy one, but he did not complain – even when times took a turn for the worse, usually in winter. After a few meetings, the handshakes became hugs. He always asked about my family. We would stand on the corner and talk about Boston, Cambridge, sports, life. I have not seen him in at least 3 years. Thinking of Bubba, I discovered that Stop&Shop was closed. I headed back home. No biscuits for me. But on the way back I met Matt. He asked me if I knew where the Green Street T stop was located. Right away I knew this man was thoroughly confused. While not actively drunk at the time, he had pickled his brain over the years with booze. He was not fully in control of his body. We walked slowly. Over the course of our walk he told me again and again that he was in jp to pick-up a check from his workplace, but that it was closed that day. Recently he had celebrated his 45th birthday. “I was 44, but now I’m 45.” He looked 60. But 8 years ago he had a wife and 2 kids. When he told me this I was stunned. It was genuinely hard to imagine Matt as anything more than a homeless man with a severe alcohol problem. I wondered where his family was. Did he even know how to contact them? He never asked for money. He just wanted to get to Green Street without passing the cop station. He commented on his clean clothes and new shoes. The shoes were a little tight for his feet, but he was thankful for them. He told me that he was a “nice guy – an Irish Catholic Alcoholic.” And like so many other folks in this country he thinks the “younger” Bush is horrible. We walked and I listened. On the corner of Centre and Moraine we split. I failed him (and Bubba) that Thanksgiving day, for God knows that even from there he was going to have a helluva hard time finding the T stop. And I had nothing else to do that day. I hope those new shoes found him a warm spot these last few cold nights.

I’ve started going to Galway House. I went there on Friday night for the Lakers-Celtics game. About halfway through the game, John came in. He was a little toasted and he wanted to talk. The man to my left, Timmy, and the man to my right (I forget his name, but he has run the TV repair shop next to Ferris Wheels for 35 years. He was drinking Hennessy on the rocks with a splash of Crème de Menthe) knew him. John had apparently told Timmy that his middle initial, K, stood for Kareem. He did not alter this story over the next 2 hours. What he did do was provide verbal punctuation to just about every sentence he uttered. I asked him if he knew how to make a manhattan. This provided him the opportunity to tell a very long story about his grandmother, taking away her driver’s license, her request for a manhattan, his job, the mayor of Boston, and a few other items. Throughout this story and throughout everything else he said, John would say “bang!” “I walked out of my office – Bang – and answered the phone – Bang – I had to go meet my grandmother and tell the mayor I had to leave the meeting – Bang.” Sometimes the “bangs” came in twos or threes. We shook hands 4 times before I left. Each time he took off his glove. (As is the usual custom at Galway House, you get up to leave, put on your coat, and then drink another beer and talk for 20 more minutes.) And the Celtics got a sweet, casual win over the Lakers.

On Saturday night I went to see Gone Baby Gone. At the Stonybook T stop, I was randomly re-united with an old friend from my Div. School days. Her first name is Kerry. I have forgotten her last name. She worked at the Div. School Library in the mid to late 90s. She helped me out on a particularly horrible day in 1997, and I will always be thankful for her kindness. She gave me a great hug. We talked and waited for the train. I remembered her dog Gus. Gus had wonderful tone; our shared friend Michael Montague used Gus as his personal grand piano. As Kerry said, Gus was “a remarkable instrument.” As I got up to depart at the Chinatown stop, Kerry stood up and gave me another long hug. I hope the next week with her girlfriend’s mother in town goes quickly.

And that, along with singing to Bob Marley while pretty goosed and talking to Arturo about life and love, was my Thanksgiving break.

Here's an article from the New York Times about Sandra Day O'Connor's husband's romance with another woman in a nursing home. Both her husband and his new love have Alzheimer's.

This morning, riding the T, I read this line from the chapter "Seeing" in Annie Dillards's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:

I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.

Dillard writes about reading Space and Sight by Marius von Senden. The book details the case histories of individuals, blinded since birth by cataracts, who were given sight by the first surgeons to discover how to safely perform cataract surgery. Their first awakenings to the world of light were radically divergent. Some, overwhelmed by the gulf between their blind and sighted experiences and understanding of the world, wanted to return to blindness. The world of sight was a horrible subversion of spatial and, more importantly, self knowledge. Of those who embraced their new world, a common experience was the coloristic flatness of space and shape. An example: one woman stands in front of a tree, touches it, and proclaims it is "the tree with the lights in it." With great reason, Dillard wishes these men and women and children had been given the materials to paint. She also, with great reason, yearns to every now and then catch a glimpse of this flat world.

For the first hour of Takeshi Kitano’s Fireworks I felt that I’d never seen a film with so much respect for an audience’s intelligence. Kitano’s absolute command of elliptical editing is quite striking. I was reminded of Soderbergh’s The Limey (still his best movie?). There are those moments when you feel a director is so vitally in touch with his vision of what film (and a particular film) should be; Fireworks is one of those moments.

The silent scene between Nishi and his dying wife Miyuki should be required viewing for any director wishing to say anything about intimacy, the quiet solace of marriage, and the dignity of caring for another person. The epitome of anti-sentimentalism.

Michael Clayton

After Michael Clayton (George Clooney) finds out that his friend and colleague Arthur Edens (Tom Wilkinson) has died he goes to a bar to console and be consoled with other friends of Arthur. Simmering with unease and bewilderment at Arthur’s suicide, Clayton is told something about Arthur which makes him think his death might not have been a suicide. What is most striking about the final shot of this scene is the particular use the director (Tony Gilroy) makes of a visual trope used throughout the movie: bright but smudged/hazy lights crowding the screen, enveloping Clooney. But in this particular instance the director pulls off a bravura halo effect, managing to make the lights appear to share the same spatial plane as Clooney’s face. He lingers on the shot for at least two reasons: it’s gorgeous and it (along with Clooney’s dumbstruck questioning look) signifies the dim awareness our protagonist is beginning to have of the evil around him.

Tilda Swinton’s Karen Crowder can’t look at a mirror without wanting to vomit. Her moneymaker -- the ability to make words handle the weight of nothingness and deceit -- has finally cashed out, and her desperation and disgust lash her as she battles her sorry mirror-image presentation of self in everyday life. The power of positive thinking routine of finding your id plus ego-ideal self in a warm-up speech before a private mirror -- ah, the luxurious safe haven of a closed door -- isn’t working anymore. Unfortunately, the movie can’t quite make enough room for her character. We never know if she, like Arthur and Clayton, has become aware of how deeply she is involved in a nefarious enterprise, or if she is simply suffering under the demands of keeping up a pretense of power and justness for public consumption. A shame, for she’s Clooney’s double, and a more drawn out meeting between the two characters would have added thematic depth to the film.

Swinton furtively using a small, plastic trashbag as a glove to handle some items she shouldn’t have her hands on is hilarious. It points to her desperation, but it is also a brilliant dig at the pathetic backroom trickery of corporations. (Wearing the plastic bag also links her to Clayton: they are both "janitors.")

off the blue highway

I'm reading William Least Heat Moon's wonderful Blue Highways. Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the book is Moon's attention to and exposition of the particular features of a given space. As he drives along the blue highways, or walks out into the desert, or sits beside a stream, the reader is treated to a cornucopia of information about the flora and fauna of a specific area. About halfway through his journey he comments on a frequent assertion made about the Texas desert plains: there's nothing out there. Moon pulls over to the side of the road and then walks into the desert to test the hypothesis. He ends up counting in no time at all 30 signs of life, including earth, sky, and wind. About a week ago I reconnected with my friend Emil. We both talked about the joys of stopping at a random spot on a mountain hike and just being still and listening to and looking for what that place at that time was being. Reveling in the immensity of all that is not human, all that does not need us. It is a real pleasure to read an author with such an observant eye and solid knowledge of the natural world; someone who through those gifts and the painstaking craft of writing makes that world more visible.