Spooning Through It

Regulating our frazzled nervous systems, one cat pic at a time.

The girls were about four months old here. While they were still small enough to fit together inside this decorative Vallauris bowl, it became their favorite squat.

Where do we turn when the digital information space is reaching critical mass of trauma and toxicity? When the news is just so unrelentingly awful (Catherine O’Hara?!) we can’t take another megabyte?

We turn to cats.

As braver souls than I comb through the latest tranche of Epstein documents, and track whether a network of AI agents is achieving consciousness, I’m going to let them do their work and not add to the noise here.

Instead, I will virtually smudge your laptop with sage in the form of a dip into the Eleanor and Lucy archives. My two sisterwife comediennes have been a mental health saving grace as the Pax Americana starts to crumble and masked stormtroopers kill innocent Americans in the street. Every day, rain or shine, bad news or worse, they get up and clown. May they provide some respite to you as well.

Due to unfortunate size constraints, I cannot post my anything close to my full arsenal. (Video is especially taxing on the system.) Here, what Substack’s paltry data limits will allow. DM me if you want more.

They are good at ledges, perhaps they can talk you off yours.