An age-old question ~ which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I know my view on this subject, but while pondering it this morning, I realized that it's not really a nonsensical, rhetorical question, like "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?". In fact, "Which came first?" is a question of what you believe.

You see, if you answer that the chicken came first, you are in support of creationism, intelligent design, animals being brought into existence and reproducing from thereon.

However, if you answer that the egg came first, you believe that prehistoric reptiles evolved until one of their eggs ended up bearing an avian species.

Which is the correct answer?

Don't ask me; I told you I know my opinion, but what's yours?

~ O.R. Blackmore

Post Script: That was rhetorical, by the way…

Let them go, but don't let the love go...

~

Pandora . . . a beloved cat . . . a cherished family member . . . a joy added to each and every day, whether her presence was in the background or she was the center of attention . . . someone who made the past five years a little more like heaven than I deserved to have them be.

~

Today, around 1:30 AM, she was mauled to death by a dog, a beast, a hunter; the irony of it is that her circumstances at the time greatly matched those of the birds and lizards she so dearly loved to kill. Raven, our dog, alerted my parents as to the crisis at hand, and they saw the dog, Pandora limp as a rag doll in its crushing jaws. They chased it down the street, where it dropped her and left. She sustained now puncture wounds, but her body was crushed. They say they think she died after the first bite; I'm glad she didn't suffer. My parents were up the rest of the morning, calling animal control, thinking of ways to break it to my brother and me, etcetera.

~

6:23 AM—This is when I get up for school. I washed my face and headed to the kitchen for breakfast, where my mother later (about eight minutes later) inquired, in a suspiciously curious manner, if I had any big tests. I did, but I asked why she was asking. She sat down hesitantly and said, "Pandy died last night."

~

For a split second, I thought she was kidding. Imagine that being something to joke about. Immediately, my eyes blurred, my throat tightened. I managed to ask what happened and get the answer. Mom told me I could stay home if I wanted. I quickly, though painfully, swallowed my orange juice and vitamins and explained that I had to go to school.

~

I hurried to my room, where I had something just short of a panic attack before continuing my morning ritual.

~

Before we left for the school, I asked if I could see Pandora. She was in the sunroom, in a cardboard box, on top of a blue towel. At this point, she was just starting to hit rigor mortis, but she was still warm; her paws were crossed in a manner so typical to her, and her fur on her legs, the top of her head, her back, and her stomach (where it hadn't been matted from dog drool) was still soft. I watched her stomach, as I often had in the past, checking to make sure she was breathing; naturally, she wasn't this time; that hit me, and I felt another bout of tears coming on. I spent no more than a few minutes with her before I said goodbye and headed to get my backpack. I asked that she not be buried until after school; I wanted to be there; I wanted to have the closure of a funeral.

~

I went through school looking "like a wreck" (as Rae so adequately put it). Frankly I felt like a wreck. I couldn't go a half hour with out getting teary-eyed. I even cried after the test I had to take. Every time my mind wandered from the desired path, I felt my throat close up, my eyes burn and, my nose sting. By fourth hour I knew that a: I couldn't do a public forum debate fifth hour when I was in this condition and b: I was sick and tired of people asking if I was okay; I couldn't answer them because if I said, "My cat died." I would burst into tears on the spot (It took me an hour to tell Rae because I was committed to calming down before I attempted to say . . . that for the first time.).

~

I called my mother just before lunch, and she agreed to take me home; I decreed that I needed to go home and (reminiscing on a particularly hilarious Dane Cook skit) have a good cry.

~

My father asked me if I was all right, and I immediately teared up again. I told him this had been happening to me periodically throughout the day; he said, "Me, too.

~

"Everybody dies, Jazz. She died the way she lived." I didn't understand. "She was a hunter, and she was killed by a hunter."

~

My mom and I took Raven out, scouring the neighborhood for that damned dog, who my father presumes lives in this area (Apparently, it was the same dog that had jumped the fence into our backyard before.). Walking around was almost therapeutic; lord knows I needed some therapy at this point. We discussed our last memories with Gata, Poca Gata, Polka Dotta, Polka Dot, Dot, Scoop'dy Doop, Lover, Muffin, Pandy. My mom's was shielding her from the rain with my Hello, Kitty umbrella only the night before and how confused she was that the rain stopped and how she was still flustered because of the bright red thing over her head. Mine was saying good night to her, maybe three hours before she died. She was lying on my mom's black sweatshirt in the chair, on which she frequently slept. My second to last was when I had stayed up till 3 AM the night before, and she had come into my room around 2 and jumped on my desk, my shelf, and had tried to jump into my closet before I stopped her because it was unstable.

~

We got home, and I cried for nigh on a half hour, huge, sobbing, gasps for air. I could swear I nearly hyperventilated at one point, but it's all rather obscure to me now. I do recall quite clearly what my dad said to me though: "We'll always love them. Don't let go—you have to let them go, but don't let the love go."

~

Mom and I headed to home depot to get some flowers for Pandora's grave, and we discussed how neither of us had regrets about our relationships with her. You see, we appreciated her every moment of every day. Her smell, the feel of her fur, the hoarse whisper her "H noise" made when she wanted out, wanted food, or just wanted to be loved. The way she wasn't picky about eating, even though her long fur made her throw up her food often. The way she would take naps with my mom or get right underneath my leg while I was sleeping and then wake me up when I was about to roll over and realized there was something in the way. The way she purred, but I could never hear it because she was always so quiet, and I had to feel her neck to feel her purr. The way she pounced on errant rubber bands and carried them between her ivory teeth. The way she slept, on her back with her paws crossed, or in a little ball, or stretched out long, or hunched down. The way she ran to the front porch when she saw the car pulling into the driveway and greeted us by the door before we went inside. The way her pupils dialated late at night, when she was most likely to play games or try and catch your feet if you moved them underneath a cover. The way she galloped across the house, hair flying behind her and ears quirked backwards. The way she sat in my window and looked out at the backyard. The way she would jump on the backs of chairs and sit, leaning just against our heads to the point where it was noticeable but not annoying. The way she looked like a rat when we bathed her because she was so small underneath all that fur. The way she sulked, by ignoring us and treating us like slaves, for a couple days after we came back from long trips, where we left her outside with a plethora of food and water and my grandfather's promise that he would come check on her. The way she would knead her paws against my stomach when I set her there. The way she stole my mom's chair the instant it wasn't occupied, especially when she knew my mom would come back or when she saw her coming back. The way she batted at my pencil when I was trying to write. The way she slept on my lap when I worked in my room during the winter. The way she she would sit on my shoulder when I carried her up the stairs or around the house. The way she closed her eyes and had the tiniest hint of a cat smile on her lips when I gently stroked the top of her velvety head, avoiding her ears because they always made her uncomfortable, and she didn't like them to be touched. The way I could scoop her up and cradle her, and she'd hardly resist until she decided she had lost enough dignity for one day. The way she scratched the banister before eating, every day, or how she scratched on closed doors if she wanted in or made twanging noises on the screen outside, always irritating my dad because she was ripping holes, but eventually getting her way and being let inside . . . We loved all of that about her, and she loved us; no regrets were necessary, but the ache was still there. There was no way I could be numb to this.

~

1:03 PM—It occurred to me just after this discussion that I would never hear Dot's H noise again. I would never have her rub up against my leg or jump onto my bookshelf for attention. I would never fill up her food bowl and see her staring up at me with those moon-like eyes of hers. I would never hear the familiar rasp of her claws against my door or be able to rub her sides when she stretched on the banister, which is missing chunks of paint and wood where she scratched so much. I would never feel the solidity of her nose and head rubbing against my fingers and toes and books when she was being really sweet. I would never, ever be able to smell that wonderful rain-esque smell that constantly permeated her gray fur or reach down and barely brush the tip of her poofy tail with my hand as she passed or graze it with my bare foot when it was flat on the floor while she ate. I would never be able to hold her and tell her how much I love her ever again. God, I miss her.

~

We got home, and I went to her box again; Mom started to cry, and I hugged her. I noticed with a start that Dot's eyes were open. There was always this gleam in her eyes, like she always knew how much better she was than me, and how she knew that I loved her all the same, and how she appreciated me to the extent a cat could. Her eyes showed intelligence, condescension, love, everything. I can't depict how the light had gone out of them now. Dead eyes . . . they show so much about life and death and so little about the beings that once inhabited the bodies of the deceased. I couldn't look in her eyes. I never have been able to stare into blankness, especially when I expect it to be full. My dad came out and noted that "She's not there anymore."

~

"I know," I replied. ". . . Her eyes . . ."

~

"That's how I knew she was dead. She was still twitching in my arms, but I knew she was dead when I looked in her eyes." Dead eyes . . .

~

Everything after that reminded me of Dot. I don't know when this will end. I got the satisfaction of finding out that my new laptop was on its way, finally. This one happiness doesn't nearly balance out the grief—How could it?—but it makes it a whole lot easier to maintain distraction. My dad made sure to explain to me that he intended to kill Pandora's killer. I get it, Dad. I really do. I listened to him pound nails into a baseball bat. I understand that killers can be killed. Survival of the fittest. We'll just wait until it comes back again; it will, and this time, we'll be ready. We can't have a cold-blooded killer loose on the streets, especially with children around.

~

I just sat around after that, waiting for food; I was hungry since I hadn't been able to eat lunch. We ate dinner when my brother came home, and then it was time for the funeral.

~

We all went outside, after looking at Pandora in the box for a while. We carried her and the box out and set them down next to the hole. My dad came out last; he had been crying. He picked Pandy up and gently set her in the hole, her body stiff as a board; I deliberately avoided looking at her eyes, but I saw that dirt had fallen in them anyway. A morning dove had died today, and, as a tribute to Pandora and her love of bird hunting, we put the bird in with her. We also dropped in a piece of the white fur, on which she loved to lie. My dad asked if we had any words after we covered her with soil. I wasn't crying, just teary, but I had nothing to say; my brother hadn't reacted to situation at all so far. My mom said a quick, "She will be missed."

~

My dad then said something to the effect of, "Sacred Mother, we give back to you what you gave to us. Take her back and reenter her into the folds of the universe. Use her energy so we can feel that energy flowing through us for the rest of time." We planted the flowers and plants we had bought (Green Gold Euryops, African Daisies, Supertunia Royal Velvet, Lemon Thyme, and Dragon's Blood Stonecrop—in the order they were planted), my mom and dad with tears streaming down their faces.

~

I took some quick pictures, and that was that. I finally saw my brother react, when he went over to Pandora's grave and cried.

~

Pandora was about eleven years old; she lived a good life; she made our lives better. It's hard to get over it, but I will go on; I'll move on, but no matter what, I want to acknowledge that she will remain in my heart. Call it her space, her section. No, call it her box. Pandora's Box remains in my heart; it will stay forever, possibly growing with age because she is the best cat that ever was. Let them go, but don't let the love go.

~

So, that's about it. The span of my day. I just hope I can pull it together in time for Noella's party. Maybe Life with Derek will help with that . . . *sigh*~

It keeps hitting me. That she's really gone. That she's not coming back. That all the things I loved about her exist now only in memory. I'm writing this because it's the best therapy. Because if I don't write these things, I'll end up wailing them instead. I can't hold all these thoughts inside or I'll explode. I can't keep thinking of her like she's gonna come to the door any minute. Because she's not. She's gone. And I really haven't realized it yet. Not really.

~ Oasis

Post Script: I think it's horribly ironic that it's "National Dog Bite Prevention Week."

I'm back! I'm whole! I'm so indubitably happy! No one can have any idea of how pleased I am. I, Oasis Ruby Blackmore, have returned! I am writing again.

-

This . . . blessing, this gift came to me again this morning around one o'clock. I was just going back to sleep after a particularly unpleasant breakfast (no offence meant to my wonderful parents~I just hate eggs and breakfast in general), when I suddenly came up with an idea for one of my oldest, uncompleted fics, "M.M.M."

 -

I started writing as soon as possible. I've gotten a lot of Chapter 24 done since midday.

 -

It was odd though; I expected that the words would just come pouring out of me when I was able to write again; they didn't. They came slowly, tripping over one another and playing musical chairs within each sentence.

 -

 It was a clumsy, scattered affair, but I'm grateful that it finally occurred. Enduring weeks without writing . . . does things to me. It drives me mad. I cry for no reason at all. I wander around the house aimlessly. One could very easily mistake me for a psychopath in an insane asylum.

 -

That's all; I just thought I'd note that I am back. I am finally whole again.

 -

THANK THE FORCE.

 -

~ Oasis Ruby Blackmore

So . . . I think my MySpace is complete . . . Seriously. Everyone keeps questioning that like it's impossible, but I don't know. I guess there are things I could do . . . like change my background to something more original . . . and add those quotes I found. I'm even posting this blog, just to post it. I guess I've just worked so hard on my eighty song playlist that I feel like its completion has completed all.

-

Mainly, I have so much time on my hands to do these things because I haven't been inspired to write in some time, which . . . quite frankly . . . sucks. I mean, I have ideas; I really do . . . sort of, but I haven't really wanted to write them. I feel as though I should be doing something creative, and the only thing I can manage is MySpace because writing just . . . hasn't been fruitful as of late; I wouldn't want to write complete crap just to be writing it.

-

Plus, I haven't been reading fanfiction. I have loads of email updates in my inbox, but alas, I have yet to even consider weaving my way through them. It's frustrating. I might be PMSing~I hope so, if it'll end this uninspired curse.

-

Maybe . . . maybe my hormones have transmitted to the other members of my family (since they've all been being absolute drama queens), and I got stuck with the lack of inspiration, which so decidedly plagues me. Or maybe this comes from my reading of actual books, which lift me up with their brilliance but show me what shlock my works really are. I want to . . . make a difference or write something profound, not just loveable romance (however wonderful it may be) and rudimentary short stories.

- 

It's just . . . when I'm not writing, I feel . . . incomplete and . . . garbled, if you will.

That may be the real reason I'm writing this; writing is the missing piece. I want to exude this rainbow of words. I want to paint the canvas with my verbs and my nouns and my adjectives. I want . . .

-

I don't know what I want. I want to be complete? Like I once thought my MySpace to be. Truthfully, maybe we never really are imperforate unless we draw from within; the force? Accept that life is a whole. I am one with plants, animals, rocks, air, fire~with . . . with Chris, whether or not he be a living, breathing organism.

-

I don't know. I suppose I'd best go type those quotes now . . . Thanks for reading.

-

~ O~sis R~~y  B~ac~mo~e

I love my hair. Yea, this may seem random, but it's not. You see, my second cousin, once-removed has breast cancer and has to go through chemo. I love her; she's one of my heroes~if you scroll down to Heroes on my profile, she's right there. She's fantastic. 

Anyway, because of the chemo, she lost all her hair. I know: "God, you're dumb. Who cares about her hair? At least she gets to live!" Yes, thank goodness she does. So, she sent us some pictures of her with no hair; she really does have a sexy head~it's not all lumpy like my dad's. *grins* My mum and I were considering cutting off all our hair and donating it to Locks of Love or summat. Naturally, my father refused to let us (apparently, he loves our hair, too), so we probably won't, but I found myself wondering if I really would have gone through with it had my dad not completely discarded the idea. Would I have chopped off all my hair and given it to a sickly child?

I don't know. I can't answer that question. I've been pondering it all night, and I can't get it out of my head. Hence, this blog. Blogging really does get tiresome. *sigh*

This all comes down to just how selfish I am. I think I'm pretty damn selfish. It almost makes me loathe myself. Ergh . . . But I apparently love myself because I'm an uncaring, ungiving whore. *sniffles*

Okay, enough self-hate rant. I'm glad I got that out of my system. That's all this nonsensical "blog" thing is good for. Well, that and documenting events.

~ Selfish Whore

All right. I'm off to bed, where I will probably have nightmares about freaky Romans.

I think I may be British. I mean, obviously, I'm not actually British, since I live in America.

To those of you, who have been fooled by my clever location statement on my profile, I apologize for misleading you; I refuse to divulge my actual location, but really, if I controlled anything, I would live in Cornwall. ^_^

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I think I'm British at heart. No, I know I am . . . Do I sound crazy? I think I sound crazy . . . But that's beside the point. To explain this obviously inexplicable feeling, I offer the following points:

1.     I've always loved British people.

2.     I have always felt a strange connection to Great Britain.

3.     I'm drawn to anything British.

4.     And I'm drawn to Britain.

1. I've always loved British people. Okay, so this may not stand as a very rational point, since it's really not . . . and since British people rock, period, but I find it emphasizes my following points. But I love British accents. I do. I mean, even if the person is hideously ugly, I can still appreciate their accent. Kind of superficial . . . yes, but it's just something I had to point out.

2. I have always felt a strange connection to Great Britain. Honestly, it's very hard to rationalize. Let me give you an example of something that happened to me just this evening; I was watching Hannah Montana~I know; shoot me!~and Hannah was completely disrespecting this lady who was supposed to be the Queen of England, so she could go watch her brother play volleyball, and I suddenly felt this overwhelming anger. I even said to Bo Bo, "You can't do that to the Queen of England!" Now, I know next to nothing about the Queen. I don't know how She's to be treated or even who the current Queen is. But I do know that I hated Hannah Montana, for that instant, for treating the Queen~and she was only an actress portraying the Queen!~that way. Deep-seeded emotions? I DON'T KNOW! I can only presume.

3. I'm drawn to anything British. This includes British people, British clothing, British names, books, music, and pretty much anything British. Maybe that's just my good taste getting in the way of American media; maybe not. I like to think the latter because I really dont find I have "good taste."

4. I'm drawn to Britain. I want to move to England with every fiber of my body and soul. I've been trying to plot a way that I could get accepted into an English college with little financial displacement to myself and my family. I'm particularly drawn to Cornwall, England. Ergh . . . The future is hard to think about. But I must! I must move to England at some point in my life. Truly, I love America; I do, but this bizarre sense tells me England is where I truly belong. My happy place is even an extension of a picture I saw of a Cornwall field in National Geographic Magazine. Oddly enough, I had created this image long before the article was published, and when I saw this picture in the magazine, I literally cried.

Can anyone explain this to me? Can anyone tell me why my mental haven is a near replica of a wonderful plot of land in England? Why my inner being tells me that I should go to this place? Why I long to be there? Why I long to live amongst the British? Why? I don't know, but I have to form some kind of theory or else suffer the trials of insanity.

British at heart . . . has a lovely ring to it, so I'll stick with that for now, until some more . . . logical explanation shows itself.

Cheers ~ Oasis

This is just a little mini-autobiography I wrote in honor of what I hear from Chris, my beloved backpack. I LOVE YOU, CHRISSY-POO! *grins*

My name is Chris. I'm a JanSport backpack. Every day, my friend Pokie, my JanSport backpack cousin, and I hang off the backs of our owners . . . . . . Yes, that sounds kind of strange, but I rather enjoy being stuffed packed full of books. Pokie, however, has a different opinion on being filled with books. Her owner is actually pretty violent when cramming her with the odds and ends of the school day.

Zippers . . . I like zippers. They tickle! Pokie, the pessimist, doesn't like being opened and closed. She . . . says it feels awkward having a hand shoved in your backside. I don't mind.

I'm fairly jealous of Pokie. That lucky duck . . . or backpack; she has a fancy-schmancy water bottle holder sewed onto her side. I, on the other hand, have to endure the fear of having water spilled all over my pockets because I lack that certain amenity.

Another reason I'm jealous of Pokie is that she has a nice, trim design. I . . . well, I have hips. Ah well.

Compared to Pokie, I'm ancient. Let's face it; Pokie's everything I'm not: young, trim, and extremely bitter.

Speaking of complete opposites, let's talk about patterns. I am a drab brown-green; curse my owner's favorite colors! Pokie, once again one-upping me, is covered in wonderful polka-dots of pink, purple, blue, and green. But hey! At least  I can make fun of her for being Pokie the polka-dotted backpack!

Pokie's also got curves. Her straps are wavy, like snakes. Hiss . . . My straps are only slightly curved, more like branches on a very straight-branched tree.

Back to backs; I find it somewhat difficult to describe the experience one gets from riding around, all day, on the shoulders of a human. It's kind of like a freefall feeling. Talking of feelings, I'm starting to get the feeling Pokie shouldn't be a backpack because she's deathly afraid of heights.

Either way, it's a tough job being a backpack.

Wow. Chris has a lot to say. He used to be homosexual, by the way. Now, he's just anti-dating, probably because he has me. *smug look* I think he's jealous of Pokie, personally, but he shouldn't be; I love him more than anyone could ever love Pokie!

~ Oasis