To be a cat is to embody the perplexities of life and morality. A lovable ball of fur that affectionately dunts my head with her head, and yet a ruthless killer that seems to take psychopathic pleasure in the kill; although while probably oblivious to the torture she causes, which may be due to a genetic lack of empathy, or is it just animal badness? Can animals other than us truly be bad? Be evil? And if not, can we? She has a head that lies untroubled by such thoughts, unlike mine. What is she dreaming of? Of dunting my head affectionately, or of meeting a mini me and pouncing with torturing claws? Her head contains the secrets of a cat, never to be known by me, or thee.
Look closely and you can just make out the river, which is actually very wide but it doesn't look so here. The golf is done, the beer has been supped, the sun is setting and the air is full of wild flower scent. Us two old fellows wander back along the narrow path toward the bridge, talking gentle nonsense and mild gossip, and everything is pretty damn good as our little place in the world tips backward from its sun.
Well, the stairway to the pathway across the railway bridge across the river Tay, leading to Moncrieffe Island, where a pleasant stroll through woodland and beside the allotments leads to the King James VI golf course, laid out by Old Tom Morris in 1897, where cares can seem strangely left on the other side of the river while enjoying a pleasant few hours and then a drink in the bar in what can seem like another world of sunshine, greenery and peace, or fresh rainfall greenery and peace, or sunshine and showers and greenery and peace, otherwise known as heaven:
Looking in a mirror is not very satisfactory really, if you are trying to examine yourself. What do you see? Dead skin cells, hair, the faint flush of sluggish blood flowing beneath… then the eyes, most people think the eyes are what matter, but they just show a little pool of black within a circle of tissue… nothing. No, the way to examine yourself is to shut your eyes, and shut up, and shut out everything - all noise. And what do you find? Thinking... Thoughts all busy a’ thinking... That is you. But still, silly swirling circular spiralling thinkings - what are they? You… What are you? Shut your eyes, shut up, stop even thinking… Just be. Be… What do you see? The same as me? Just be… Me.
One day, or more probably one evening, in 1986, I rather casually and surprisingly easily made this man, with the assistance of this lady, his mother, and I find that all rather amazing. I know the biochemistry, the biology, even the physics that was involved, but still, or perhaps even partly because of what I know, I still find it all amazing; and mysterious - all very mysterious, despite the aspects that are understood. Which thought reminds me that I don't actually know what I am, or what anybody is, really - these strange consciousnesses that are somehow created by brains. These minds. What are they? We don't know. But made by chemistry, maybe, somehow; or maybe just facilitated by the chemistry - that much at least seems sure - but with an origin that may be much more mysterious than what mere chemistry can ever show? Who knows? Nobody knows, not even the man I made who is now more clever, and much more sensible, than me, strangely.
She did not know a thing about the danger ahead, but I managed to negotiate the arch and miss the traffic, however... a hefty squirrel then either fell or jumped into the boat from an overhanging tree through there. It made a heck of a thud, appeared rather stunned, then leapt out onto the bank in a truly impressive feat of animal athleticism. Madness in the boat.