My Light Will Still Burn

My weekend draws to a close. Tammy Coon found me. I went to school with her for one year in 1984-85 and fell for her completely. I was 13 when I met her and 14 the last time I ever saw her. This is the second time we've communicated with each other since the 7th gade; this latest courtesy of Facebook. She posted a comment today asking what I've been up to for the past two days. I answered I've been busy with picking up Mason at the airport. Mason is a magnificent longhaired black cat. He has belonged to my brother Travis in Alaska, but the situation became complicated as his voluminous demands for attention detracted from the tranquility required for sleeping in that household, especially critical because my brother and his wife are the proud parents of a beautiful son only four months old. Mason arrived in a little portable kennel and I brought him into my apartment where he patiently ignores the hissing of my other cat, Senorita Magdalena Marseilles.

My friend, Jenny Alyssa, having learned of this upcoming expansion to my feline family helpfully advised me to keep them in adjacent rooms where they could gradually get used to each other without risking any violent animosity. I followed this method for a couple hours, but learned eventually that Mason is a hider. He hides inside the recliner in the living room or under the bed in my room. I don't think he's the least bit afraid of Senorita. Rather it seems he simply prefers to avoid confrontation with her. Ideally within the next ten days or so they will be cuddling up with each other and forging an intimate and longlasting companionship.

Meanwhile Jenny has been battling a tenacious flu and it's given me the opportunity to remind her often that she's important to me. When I'm sick I always appreciate immensely the attention others invest in me. Any little concern for my misery benefits my soul in just the same way antibiotics do the body. Keeping this in mind, I tried to show Jenny that I care about her by bringing her flowers and checking up on her each day to see how she feels and she's indicated this manifestation of compassion has accentuated her recovery as well. I wouldn't do this for just anyone, but sometimes I think of Jenny as being a little like me in her solitude. We both live alone and neither of us have family anywhere nearby so I find myself sometimes endeavoring to supplement elements of her life that might otherwise be deficient... in other words I don't want her to be alone during holidays or neglected when she's sick. We could be well on our way to establishing one of the greatest friendships ever conceived on the internet.

My weekend was also accentuated with a book discussion at Borders featuring The Winter of Our Discontent by Steinbeck. It's a story about a good man who feels pressure from his family and community to reclaim the prestige that his heritage dictates should be his. Unfortunately the only way to do this effectively compels him to use unethical methods resulting in one person drinking himself to death and another being deported out of the country. In the end he finds he can no longer demand his children live by higher standards and principles. In other words he's betrayed his own soul. Steinbeck drives home the tragedy with these words in the final chapter:

"My light is out. There's nothing blacker than a wick. Inward I said, I want to go home--no not home, to the other side of home where the lights are given. It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone."