Wednesday, February 3, 2010

A Familiar Story


Now I like to think of myself as a pretty level headed person. I might wax on about fairies and fantasy, full moons and flowers, but generally I know the difference between imagination and reality. And when it comes to matters of the soul I like to keep my mind open. I do not follow any religion nor ascribe to any doctrine, though I do contemplate the spiritual from time to time.

I also like cats. I remember once doing a church gate collection for charity. It was at a late mass in a country chapel one winter. Lucky old me was stuck up at the back entrance. Right by the graves. In the dark. On my own. When a little moggy came along I thought ‘great, a wee bit of company’, but from there things just got spookier.

You see, the cat was more interested in the graves than in me. Two graves in particular, that weren’t even close by each other. I watched it move between the pair, stopping at each one for a while before returning to the other. It was as if it was relaying messages, or paying respect. Something. After my stand was over I went and investigated. Guess what- the dates of death on both headstones were the same year and the ages close. Both were men. Buddies, perhaps?

Anyway, I just thought that an interesting little anecdote to introduce the following article about a cat with an uncanny ability. It’s a fascinating story.

Doctor casts new light on cat that can predict death


SYDNEY (Reuters) - When doctors and staff realized that a cat living in a U.S. nursing home could sense when someone was going to die, the feline, Oscar, was portrayed as a furry grim reaper or four-legged angel of death. Read More

Sunday, January 31, 2010

I'd Sooner Go To Middle Earth



"On Fantasy"
by George R. R. Martin
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake.

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.

Originally published in The Faces of Fantasy: Photographs by Pati Perret copyright © 1996 by Pati Perret
Copyright © George R. R. Martin. All rights reserved.

Friday, January 29, 2010

Living the Dream

This morning I had ice-cream for breakfast. Strawberry cheesecake ice-cream. I don’t think we had strawberry cheesecake ice-cream when I was a kid, but if we had it would have been an ambition of mine to have it for breakfast.
Related Posts with Thumbnails