The reasons why we do what we do.

Because I don't. For the most part.

I barely understand the motivations driving my own actions. And I do mean barely. When it comes to diagnosing others, I'm pretty much making it up as I go along.

I witnessed a spontaneous fistfight the other day. Over a locked door. Two grown men erupted because someone was left out in the cold.

And there was blood. And screaming. And posturing. And testosterone abounding everywhere.

Then it was over. And they went their separate ways. Back to their respective corners, I guess.

With not more than the bat of an eye.

And maybe a bruised ego.

I was left completely baffled. Baffled because 1) I think that accidentally locking someone out does not warrant opening up a can of whoop ass; 2)beating another human being to a bloody pulp was a viable - and preferred - way to settle their differences ... for both parties; 3) after it was done - after it was clear who was the victor and who was the fallen - it was over. Like that.

It's like there was an understanding between the two of them. This is how we make amends. This is our we resolve our conflict.

It wasn't neat. It wasn't pretty. But they reestablished some sort of balance that apparently had become upset during the course of events.

And now everything was right again.

I stood in the arch of my doorway ... bemused over the whole situation. It's like I was watching a completely different culture speaking a language I didn't - couldn't - understand.

And here's the bigger picture: This little battle was a microcosm of larger world events. At least that's how I saw it. Someone is angry because they were left out in the cold. And soon there will be blood. And screaming. And posturing. And testosterone abounding everywhere.

And I'm left standing on the sidelines - watching - wondering how things have gotten to this point. Gone this far.

I couldn't sleep last night. Had such terrible insomnia. So I checked out a few diaries. Actually, more than few ... I was up until 3am reading. One diary I hit really struck me. (Ha! ... no pun intended)

It was the diary of someone from Africa who had just moved to the United States. She couldn't figure out why Americans were so sad all the time. She said - in her country - they don't have anything ... and they're happy. They're so grateful for even the smallest gifts in life - family, food, rain ... she couldn't understand why so many Americans - with all the riches of this land - seemed compelled to be miserable.

She does have a point. I would say that I read maybe fifty diaries last night. And, of that fifty, fourty eight were of unhappy people. Either depressed. Or angry. Or hopeless. Or resigned.

And, on any given day, I could be one of those diaries too.

And, to be fair, there aren't just Americans here so I shouldn't generalize. I'm sorry.

I don't know why we aren't happier. It can't just be life - because there are people with much worse lives than ours that are far happier.

Maybe Joseph Campbell is right. Maybe we need a sense of belonging. We need to feel part of a tribe. Without that, maybe we are all a little lost.

In other news, I think my cat is a crackhead.

And I don't mean figuratively. I'm talking literally. The only explanation for her behavior I can come up with is some hardcore drug use.

This is my first cat so I don't know if what she does is typical cat behavior. But even it is ...it's still freaky.

During the course of writing this entry she has meowed about 20 times. She goes into a room and meows. I follow her to said room to see what the problem is ... she runs into another room. And meows. So I go that room to see what the problem is ... and she runs into another room. And meows.

It's a sick and twisted game she plays.

So I think maybe she wants some food. I go to look at her food bowl and it's full. But, just to be sure (and so that my trip up TWO flights of stairs wasn't an entire waste) - I top it off with some fresh Meow Mix.

Well, of course, she comes a runnin'. She gets really close to her food bowl.

And starts meowing again.

So I change her water. Thinking, maybe sometime within the last hour since I changed it, perhaps it's become contaminated by some toxic biochemical pollutant ... it's better to be safe than sorry.

I even give her the god damn Brita water.

Does she stop meowing? Nope.

Christ, it's like having a newborn baby. Only with fur. And four legs. And a tail.

Okay, so it's absolutely nothing like having a newborn .. but you get my drift.

Finally, I say enough already and come back downstairs to finish this entry.

Suddenly, she's goes all schizo and starts bolting from room to room for no apparent reason at a really high rate of speed.

It's really funny when she misjudges her peripheral distances ... and runs into a wall. I don't think cats get the significance of walls. Which makes it even funnier.

I swear to god she does PCP when we're not home. She's definitely high on something.

But at least she has stopped meowing.

Thank god.

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