Annus Mortui...

Haven't written in a few days. Depressed. Feeling obligated to make an appearance, but for Goddess's sake, don't allow it to spawn resentment. Depressed. Some days I've barely been able to get out of bed. Or stay out of it. Depressed. Goddess only knows how bad it would be without my medication. Praying to some sort of Muse for some sort of inspiration. Days. Nothing.
Then Greg Lake died.
Hurray!
Now anyone acquainted with me will know that I bore the man no ill will, in fact he had been a teenage crush (along with Bowie, Brian May, Peter Gabriel, and Alex Lifeson. This undoubtedly is one explanation for my usually unfeminine passion for Prog Rock.)
Think of my exclamation as one accompanied by hysterical laughter. The laughter of one who just can't take anymore. Sarcastic. Unhinged. DONE.
Death everywhere-idols, lovers, innocence, youth. Gods, even The Bear a.k.a. My Sad Cat passed this week!Some serious health problems are forcing me to consider my own mortality these days.
Annus Mortui...
At one time, I owned my own Memento Mori. A traditionally morbid object that reminded one to cherish life while we had it. Mine was the reproduction of a 17th century gravestone, beautifully and intricately carved. I intended it to be used as my own when the time came. Sadly it was stolen, along with it's mate, a genuine human skull, and several other precious items, from a storage space one year I was between moves.
As those did hundreds of years before me, I would gaze upon my 'personal reminder' each morning upon waking, and thank the Gods for a new day. I suppose I should find a new Memento Mori. I haven't been very thankful, lately.
Enough people have told 2016 to 'fuck it's own face'. Far be it from me to jump on bandwagons-but COME ON! An unethical firing from a job I loved AND the death of a cherished loved one-within days of each other?! Anyone would be left shocked and desolate after something like that. Anyone.
But for someone who already suffers from depression, the resulting grief would be incapacitating.
Except me.
I haven't been able to indulge in the luxury of mourning. I've had to hit the ground running-struggling to find a job, and gather resources to keep a roof over my head. My doctors are baffled, and have complimented me on "how well" I've been managing my grief. But I've shut everything off. .I've barely cried. This last two weeks, I took a break from the full-time job of job hunting, and tried to keep flat to assuage the agony of my chronic sciatica. I hoped perhaps I could take this time to properly cry and moon over photos, but a house guest denied me the privacy of doing so. So back to job hunting this coming week;financial situation is desperate. Not to mention a bleak, tree-less Yuletide.
My doctors have stopped complimenting me. They're getting worried,and now they're telling me so. Failure to properly process grief can result in a breakdown somewhere down the line. Well, I don't have TIME for THAT!
I suppose what all this boils down to, is that perhaps I need some kind of 'Memento Vitae'. With all this death and sadness, I need something, anything to remind me that happiness can be just around the corner. I don't need anymore images of death-they've been everywhere. Might it be time for this old goth to hang up her widows weeds?
Spring. Still so far away...

I Would Be A Falcon And Go Free...

I find it a little ironic, that a creature so closely resembling a feline that they're sometimes called "Sky-Cats" wouldn't think twice about plummeting gracefully to the earth to take off with poor Mittin's, or Professor Whisker Q. Sardonicus in her talons for a tasty snack. Neighbourhood residents are often gently snowed upon by pigeon feathers, after hearing a barely perceptable "oof!" More and more bird wings (the least favorable part of a meal) are gingerly stepped over, as are an inordinate number of squirrel tails we havent been seeing before.
Yes, we have Falcons. Here, in an urban neighbourhood, just a twenty minute walk from downtown.
Peregrines. They've recently been soaring majestically over their territory-in this case,Toronto's Parkdale-on a daily basis, keeping the district's vermin in check. Their hunting technique is fascinating: flying high over their prey, they tuck their wings close into their body for better aerodynamics, and plummet downwards to collect their meal-killing upon impact. Understandably, for they can reach speeds up to 389 km/h!

By the mid-sixties the Peregrine population had been all but decimated by DDT, for a number of reasons, including the weakening of egg-shells. In the mid-eighties, Peregrine Societies began hatching campaigns, and within twenty-five years the population had proverbially clawed it's way off the endangered list.
Cities are the perfect environment for predators that thrive on bothersome rodents and birds, and the high-rises and office towers approximate natural cliff structures where they can comfortably nest.Ornithologists register each peregrine family-you'll never find one that isn't isn't tagged, and scrupulously monitored. They are becoming as ubiquitous to the cities menagerie as the racoons, possums, "Winged Rats" and "Chicken of the Trees"(squirrels) they dine upon.
Historically, Raptors have symbolised nobility, wisdom, and of course, stealth. The Egyptians worshiped Horus, the raptor-headed son of Osirus, who avenged his father's murder, thus becoming synonymous with honour, revenge, familial dedication, and of course, royalty. Horus-also known in the feminine form as Heru-keeps our environment just a little less flea-bitten and rabid, She brings some magic, elegance and nobility to our city. If you see me walking with my head held up and a big smile, patiently move aside, look up, and know why.
"I'm lookin' at the Big Sky, now"...