The front wall
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by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

That my cat went over the wall is no great feat of feline acrobatics. The wall is only ten feet tall and Fellini is an agile climber. Then, and the wall, a series of three, metal double garage doors, is only ten feet tall. And, along its inner surface, there are reinforcing crossbeams every two and a half feet. Hell, in a pinch, even I could climb over it. The greater accomplishment is that after Fellini's adventure in the outside world he got back in, using hinges and bolt heads to scale the wall's otherwise smooth outer surface.

In our old, long-time home in colonia San Antonio, Fellini came and went as he pleased through a cat door and over a shorter, garden wall. But two and a half months ago, we left there and were taken in by my friend J, whose house is on the northern side of the northernmost street in San Miguel, literally on the edge of town, up here in colonia Insurgentes (a corner of San Luis Rey).

At J's, for a week, Fellini gazed out wistfully at the campo, unlimited open acreage just outside our first-floor bedroom window, land contiguous with, not far from, and in many way just as beautiful as, the Charco del Ingenio, our botanical garden. Then, catching J's dog napping on the patio, this agile climber navigated a tree, the neighbor's roof, another tree growing between the sidewalk and the road, and disappeared. I worried and searched. Then, four or five days later, no worse for wear, the skinny orange cat reappeared through the cat door into J's kitchen one morning.

The backyard
*

Fellini and I, both too delicate for housemates (J also has two cats), after a month's residence at J's we moved, but only one block's distance away, still just a stone's throw from that great expanse of land. Immediately more comfortable alone in our new, second-floor apartment, Fellini started venturing down the stairwell and into the patio, especially at night. Really a great cat, when I'm finally ready for bed, and call out the window, he comes up the stairs and in. Except last night, when he didn't.

I went down and looked. I opened the patio's street door and called. Then I went to bed, sleeping until being woken by Fellini rattling the apartment door, some undetermined number of hours later. Happy to see him, I gave him caresses and kibble, and went back to bed.

But lying there, the slim hope of falling back asleep quickly evaporated. After ten minutes of stubbornly denying waking reality, I got up to write this article, a story whose moral is:

Life is a metaphor for another life we live below the surface. That is the truer, mythic realm of the prophets, who can, and the madmen, who cannot, sustain its vision. For the rest of us, most of the time, that mystical, magical world is but a dream, but it is a dream most worthy of our interpretation.

Ernest Hemingway
*

Writing this I am still half in that dreamy world. With dawn's first rays hinting their presence, and Fellini's escape in mind, I am reminded of Hemingway, another great adventurer, who, incidentally, also liked to write in the mornings. And from Hemingway, my thoughts to my dear friend Chris, a mountain-man's mountain-man, my long-time buddy up in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, who also lived life as an adventure and, like Hemingway, also ended it all with a gunshot to his head, although at a much younger age, having the decency to deliver the coup de grâce out in his beloved wilderness where no one would have to witness or clean up the mess.

Who is to say why such things happen? But it seems to me that while Hemingway and Chris both welcomed external danger, they never came to terms with their inner demons.

My adventures have been largely internal: traversing complicated, familial, mental-emotional labyrinths, recently I've come out onto a straight path. And, in a process I see as at least metaphorically related to that; investing all my time and money cultivating local internet (think the Yellow Pages robustly digitally reborn), tens of thousands of hours and dollar, Lokkal's garden is, at last, filling with blossoms and fruits. Spiritually ready, professionally prepared, it's time to stop taxiing this plane up and down the runway, pull the throttle back, and take off into an excellent new adventure. San Miguel is just the beginning.

Fellini
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What I learned from Chris is hard to put into words. But I see the same lessons reflected in Fellini. Fellini's attitude and his orange fur frequently remind me of Chris' red hair and attitude. It's the boldness, the confidence to go forward before all your ducks are in a row... taking a chance. The universe gives you the friends and the cat you deserve.

Monomania is a word I first came across in Moby Dick. I admit that, along the way I've wondered if in my obsession I am crazy, the pursuit of my white whale. I've had frequent opportunities to ask myself why I so clearly see the need for and the profitability of local internet, when no one else sees it at all... but now some important people are noticing.

The talent that prophets have, and that madmen do not, is their ability to find their way out of the metaphor. Adventurers also, if they want to live to explore another day, need to come back over the wall, to find their way home from the adventure.

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, our local social network, the community online and off, Atención robustly reborn for the digital age. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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