Cato's Republic

The milonga of the mind

On hot evenings in Calistoga, when I can no longer sleep, I slip away to the Blue Milonga, a ballroom, where I dance the tango into the early hours. There are many regulars. We change partners with frequency. As if in a dream, we sway and pause like pendulums; dancing onward towards the dawn and the cooling fog of the morning.

The Milonga is a place of meeting for the felines of Calistoga. Canines have their dog parks, but for the refined feline it is the ballroom where love and passion are stoked. Here is where interpersonal differences are worked out. And for those few of us who are extraordinarily self-aware, the is the place to examine the mind while engaging the body. The dancing is extraordinary. Couples in all combinations, ages and sexes, glide, tip, tilt and embrace their way around the floor. Improvisation is the norm; a particularly talented couple may receive recognition for their dancing when other dancers step back, stop and watch.

The Blue Milonga is situated in a simple building, indistinguishable from the outside. Inside the walls are lined with mirrors, wooden chairs, and tables. A simple wooden bar extends the length of one end. The central floor is empty. Here is where the dancing takes place.

On this particular evening, one of my usual partners rests against the wall. Nelle is regal and elderly tortiseshell queen; she is still supple in her movements. She holds her paws out and I take her in my arms and we dance to La Cumparsita, the classic work for the tango. The orchestra composed of a guitar, accordion, comb and paper, flute, harp and violin drives our dancing as we turn around the room pausing and then floating forward as if the floor is a stream filled with rocks; the rocks slowing us momentarily, and then we rush onward. Nelle's smell is divine. I lose myself in the dance. My mind fully engaged, one pointed and watching my own physicality. My mind becomes completely concentrated as we dance.

When my mind rests this way, I can contemplate its nature as The Great Cat teaches. What is the  nature of the mind? It creates my reality. What ever I think is so. It is the overall atmosphere of my life. If I concentrate my mind while dancing on one thought, one physical process (breathing in and out) one individual (The Great Cat), my mind, which is restlessly moving here and there, calms, relaxes and once this happens over a long period of time; I attain a perspective that allows any suffering or joy I feel to leave me. I am steady and calm no matter what is happening in my outer world. My mind is arrested.

When one takes on the tango in this way, it is much like adventure vacationing. You are zipped into a protective vest. You put your helmet on and clip into the zip line. Off you go on a trip across the canopy of the rain forest. Hours can pass and you blip along at such a blinding speed your mind has no time to process what is happening to it. Parrots flap and scream in your face as they scatter in front of you. You who are hang gliding through their roosts, where hours before you were driving your stationwagon to the grocery for milk with no parrots in sight. As a consequence of the fast and inconceivable, your mind slows and your thoughts diminish. Gradually they go away.

In the space of this peace, I lose the orientation of my childhood. There is no up or down, there is only the dance. As Nelle and I slide across the floor the evening expands. I lose my quest for the presidency. I leave my clone behind. I lose my campaign manager. I lose my conflicted parentage. I lose my racial identity. I lose my addiction to catnip. I do not itch. I lose my obsessive-compulsive disorder. I am free from the constraints of my own thoughts. I am liberated from myself. I am no longer feline. I am at peace. Hours pass as I rest in this state.

All too quickly the evening comes to an end. I find myself once again in Nelle's arms as she yawns and says the light is coming it is time to go home before the dogs come out. We walk into the cool night air and say our goodbyes. I am refreshed, tired, and yet clear. Every thought I have, I can examine easily and discard if it has not of value. My limbs are fatigued, but they feel well used. Nelle's scent is still on my shirt where she rested her head. I walk into the cold dawn of liberation and head home.

The Blue Milonga is located on Lincoln Ave., next to the Calistoga Roastery off an unmarked hallway. Hours of operation are 10 pm to 5 am. Dress is formal. Cost to dance is $40. The description of the mental process while dancing come from the Yoga Philosphy of Patanjali, Book 1, On Concentration.

Warm beer and sheep's pluck

A year ago, I caught my campaign manager looking at Siamese Cat rescue agencies on the Internet. As soon as she realized I was watching the screen, she clicked it shut. I didn't think much about it until one day I was lying in the sun listening to Grooverider on my iPod when two shiny shoes walked up to me and asked:

"Mr. Cato?" The voice was deep, rich and melodic. I was so engrossed in the music that at first I thought it was Grooverider himself.

"Yes," I said, "oh, yes." I was moving my shoulders and toes to the music. The ear buds were whipped off my head and the fellow grabbed me rather roughly by the neck and held me up to his lips.

"Mr. Cato, it is your lucky day," his lower lip was wet, red and slightly swollen like he had recently had plastic surgery. "Your campaign manager has arranged a lovely trip for you to the Burgundy region of France. Your journey will include a visit to Domaine Heresztyn the famous pinot noir producer." I began to salivate. There is nothing in the world like pinot from Burgundy, and nothing better than Heresztyn.

"When do we leave?" I stood up and brushed off my fur. I was ready to go.

"Follow me," he said. I followed him to the street.

Lest you think me an idiot, you must know that I was aware that all was not as it seemed. I was suspicious, but wanted to play along because if my campaign manager had arranged a trip, then I was excited to see where I was going.

My campaign manager is a master at catering to my every whim. She knows my preferences; my favs and pet peeves. She has the list. I printed out for her. But lately, she has been tired of my flea problems. Cleaning the house repeatedly has become a burden. And the medications, while effective, were getting harder and harder to give to me without getting clawed and bitten. I have a temper........ I knew she was stressed enough with my campaign that having to deal with my health problems might have finally put her over the edge. In other words, I suspected she had arranged for something drastic to happen to me.

But for the moment, I was distracted when I found a Lincoln Town Car, appointed with pink satin pillows that just fit my derriere. Mr. Smith, as he wanted me to call him, handed me a small glass of a semillon from Stony Hill. Next to the pillow was a boxed lunch from Martini House. I was in heaven. I sat back and took a ride.

My home, the Napa Valley, is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The graceful, green vineyards are set against verdant hills. There are long sweeps of fields, punctuated by well-appointed and sometimes whimsical wineries. It is my daily pleasure to ride through this landscape and breath the air of the rich and famous. This ride was no different. I stuffed myself and lay down for a nap; Mr. Smith at the wheel; a little Bach playing for background music.

We pulled up on the tarmac of the Napa County Airport next to a Gulf Stream jet with the number N1HC. Something in the back of my mind reminded me of the significance of this number and this plane. I had read about it somewhere, but I couldn't remember where. As it was I was a bit woozy. Mr. Smith had to hoist me into my flight seat when I found I was too weak to jump myself. He placed a belt across my lap.

He was joined by another man dressed in a dark suit. The guy had a crew cut, short blonde hair and his eyes were masked by a pair of sunglasses. He nodded to me and handed me a selection of magazines. I took the latest Fortune Magazine and then the lights went out.

Hours later I found myself laying on a countertop next to a sink. I heard voices nearby, so I lay motionless waiting to see what would transpire.

"Madam Cato, we have the cells and should be able to culture them," I was intrigued by the voice. Just as I thought, we hadn't traveled to France at all. Going by the accent, I guess we were somewhere in Scotland. This was haggis, bashed neeps and chappit tatties country. I thought about warm beer and sheep's pluck and gagged silently.

"As you said Ma'am, even in his sedated state, he was dangerous. Our head researcher is in the hospital, he was completely ripped open. Yes, yes, Madam, we will have to charge you extra for the hospitalization." He listened for several seconds and replied. "We'll take the most viable cells and implant them in surrogate mothers. From then it will take the normal feline gestation period and we should have several viable kittens."

"Yes we did Madame, as best we could, we implanted only those cells without the allergy component. This is not a precise science and it is hard to figure out where allergies come from given that cats have 19 pairs of chromosomes. When you alter one gene, you can disturb other characteristics. We were, however, able to harvest those characteristics that you most desired -- the albinism gene that describes Siamese, the aelle "cs". The results should give us a similar look to Cato, but without the allergies, the obsessive-compulsive factors and the irritable temperament." He listened for several seconds preoccupied with the individual on the other end of the call.

I opened one eye. Staring down at me was a comely ewe with a deeply satisfied smile. I was startled by this until I realized the sheep was inside a picture frame. I recognized that smile from television reports. Here was Dolly the first cloned animal. My life reeled before me. My campaign manager had done it, she'd tried to clone me without the annoying characteristics that make me, ME!

She no longer loved me! My body convulsed in a silent scream. I dry-balled my eyes out, remaining as limp as possible.

When I came back to my senses, I was alone in the lab. I have no idea what fate would have awaited me if I had lain unconscious until Mr. Smith collected me. As it was, I left the lab in ruins and hopped a commercial airliner for the transatlantic flight. I took a taxi home from the airport. The house was silent when I arrived. I climbed onto the back of my chair and went to sleep.

My campaign manager was not surprised to see me later that night when she returned home. She fed me as usual. Evidently the lab had warned her. I was sure she would pay for my destruction.

Thus began the agonizing days until my clone showed up in an Styrofoam ice chest.

It is disturbing to watch this little fellow, who looks so much like me, and has so few problems. He spends no time at all grooming himself. His fur is flawless. Fleas, even phantom fleas, seem to have no effect on him. He just brushes them off. Psychologically he is sound as well. He cuddles on cue. He doesn't use his claws. He sits purring contentedly in my campaign manager's lap.

I hate him. Even though he looks like me, he has this little self-satisfied smile, I find hard to stomach. It is the same smile that Dolly the sheep had. It is hard to wipe it off his face, although I have tried many times. It must be genetic.

One without second

Many of you are too young to remember Thomas Eagleton, former U.S. Senator who was removed from the Democratic ticket as 1972 vice presidential nominee with George McGovern after revelations of his mental illness. The Missouri politician checked himself into the hospital three times between 1960 and 1966 for physical and nervous exhaustion. He received electric shock treatments twice for the condition. While McGovern backed him after the knowledge about his previous hospitalizations were announced, Eagleton withdrew from the race and the election was won by a man commonly understood to have a personality disorder or two -- Richard Nixon.

Mental illness among presidents, while common, is one of those unspoken secrets in American politics. Better a sex scandal than diagnosis of madness.

Apparently mental instability in American presidents is more common than one would imagine. According to a recent analysis of biographical sources by psychiatrists at Duke University Medical Center, more than half of American presidents from 1789 o 1974 suffered from psychopathy.

That's right, Abraham Lincoln was suicidal as a young man. Ulysses S. Grant was diagnosed as antisocial and an alcoholic. Theodore Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson both suffered bi-polar disorder. Calvin Coleridge was a depressive. Ronald Reagan suffered from dementia, while this per se is not a mental illness, it affected how he thought -- or didn't -- and how he spoke. And of course, Bill Clinton suffered from sexual addiction. I'll leave it to the professionals to diagnose the individuals that make up the current administration.

And while it is impossible to say how madness affected their administrations, it is worth acknowledging that more often than not, one's internal "atmosphere" does shape reality. How then, do we choose the "atmosphere" or mental disorder most conductive to the greater good?

And while you are pondering that question, I would like to make an announcement.

Following the trend of great American leaders, I have been diagnosed with a personality disorder. As any feline knows, a run for the presidency can bring all your emotions into play. It is a test of stamina as well as intellect. I have been depressed, stressed, abused substances and generally succumbed to the problems of all candidates. The diagnosis came last week in a particularly touching sit down with my vet.

"Cato," he said. "I have some potentially disturbing news, your campaign manager wanted me to tell you myself. You have obsessive-compulsive disorder. In earlier ages, we would have said you were possessed by the devil, but in these modern times we can come up with a diagnosis by eliminating all rational causes for the problem. I am speaking of your obsessive scratching, licking and biting."

I started to scratch my head in response, but he stopped me. "I am fully aware that you have no real idea how much you are mutilating yourself. We know from an earlier age that you were afflicted with a flea allergy and your response was as a normal kitten. You tried rid yourself of the fleas that were torturing you. Gradually, over the years this behavior became habit and we now believe you cannot control your behavior on your own. As we have moved to eliminate all fleas in your environment, we have observed that you have not stopped scratching. Cato, there are no fleas left alive in your house or yard. We have taken a survey. There is no 'real' reason for you to continue to groom yourself." He paused to let this sink in. My heart sank. I was a certified nut!

He could see my response in my face. He held up his hand. "Now we can treat this and stop the inappropriate ticks that you suffer from. I have some kitty Prozac, which I would like to prescribe at bedtime. Not only will it break the cycle of self-mutilation, it acts as a mild antihistamine and should control the symptoms. After a period of months, we will withdraw the medication and you should be cured." He smiled at me.

"Cured! Cured! I didn't know I had the problem to begin with." I was emphatic. I lay down on the floor at his feet and began to bite my belly.

"What are you talking about? I am perfectly normal. As you can see, I itch, therefore I bite. It is just that simple. I itch, bite, itch, bite, itch and bite! I cannot stop it!" I dug in to my skin and mashed it between my teeth. And then I broke into tears.

My career was ruined. I was a nutter and there was no glossing it over. How would the feline population take it? Would they discount my presidential run as the delusional dreams of a cat with a brain disorder or was it a repressed impulse -- some dark thought that I was running from? I did not rule out yet another hosing for my problem.

After my interview with my vet, I stood on the edge of the abyss. I grasped the medication bottle he had handed me and dashed it and its contents into the gutter. I could end it all by running into the street under the wheels of a car. I could ask my campaign manager to smother me with those nice soft pillows on her bed. My heart ached. My very soul screamed for relief from my own self-loathing.

I sat down to lick my tail. I itched and there was no controlling it. It was then that I received the whack on the head that made me forget everything.

"O Cato, he who possesses all knowledge hides among madmen to avoid detection." He hovered in the air in front of me bearing his bow. The Great Cat's eyes glittered as he talked of my madness. The force of his gaze penetrated me. Slowly my mind shifted from chaos and agitation to a kind of quiet splendor.  

"O Cato, you are the knower. Your mind and body are the field of knowledge. Once you know and surpass this, you will attain all that this world, and the worlds beyond, behold."

He rose into the air by the force of his will. Slowly he somersaulted before me, head over tail over head over tail, he slowed and stopped hanging upside down, his nose touching my own. Was this a part of my delusion? It had nothing to do with the stinging sensation of fleas. In fact, I did not itch. I did not itch!

"O Cato, the pure qualities of the inner self shine through the senses like a flame enclosed in a crystal lamp."  I smelled gardenia -- tempting and wet -- gardenia filled my mind. He purred in my ear.

"Just as water cannot permeate a diamond and sand cannot be cooked in boiling water, your heart cannot be contaminated by madness.

"Just as the earth is not shaken by the force of a hurricane, you are not disturbed by the swirl of calamity. You mind remains steady and is not swayed by anxiety, disease, old age, even hope and passion do not ruffle it.

Suddenly we were on the battlefield. The dust, sweat and noise of mortal combat filled me. Both of us, our arrows drawn, advanced on the enemy whose cruel faces incited murder. My mouth was dry and burned with bile. As I drew back the string of my bow, I drew in my breath. In order to reach the heart of my enemy, I had to steady my hands and still my body -- my mind followed.

"O Cato, your state of mind is called steadfastness. A feline whose heart and mind acquire steadfastness is an open treasure of wisdom." He spoke calmly as we slaughtered our foe.

"O Cato, a cat  with a steadfast mind controls his senses, mortifies his body and performs all actions with restraint.

"He puts meditation to sleep on the couch of Samadhi and his mind becomes one with consciousness.

"Know that such a cat has mastered the heart. When this happens wisdom rises supreme." I smiled with pleasure and pride as I clawed my enemy apart. I ripped his head off and sucked his brains.

"A feline whose heart obeys his every command should be considered wisdom incarnate." I am smacked my lips. The brain is the tastiest part of the body.

"O Cato, you should know that the Great Cat and the knower, the feline with the steadfast mind, are one in the same.

"He is the light which is illuminated by no other. He is the Feline of all, controlled my none. The Great Cat fills all space with his nature.

"He rests where all speech becomes silence, knowledge is merely ignorance and existence and nonexistence are one. Such is the one reality of the Great One.

"O Cato, the One is in everything, both movable and immovable, just as heat is the same in all forms of fire.

"Know that the Great Cat is subtle and indestructible and is in all things.

"He is within and without, near and yet far. He is the one without second."

Then he took me in his paws and bit into my flesh. My body burned as he ripped me apart with his fangs. He scraped his teeth on my bones. I was his prey and it brought me both pain and pleasure. As he ingested me, my mind stilled and my body rested deeply. Hours later I woke calm and relaxed. The bottle of pills beside my bed. The madness of involuntary movement -- licking and biting -- gone. I was free of the madness and steadfast in my belief in the One.

Editor's note: Cato took inspiration from several books, Jnaneshwar's Gita, Srjmad Bhagavata, and The Concise Yoga Vasistha. He modified words from Jnaneshwar's Gita chapter entitled: Distinction Between the Field and the Knower of the Field for some of his text. As always, respect is due to Krishna.