Sunday, July 7, 2013

the one where all the cats fart

i absolutely cannot see to write with this gas mask on, so i'll just copy an email from earlier in the day.  they say nothing is ever really removed from the internet, and for that i feel most appreciative, as this may be my last missive to the world.  sure, it starts off discussing sporting events in a carefree tone, but that's just me, being brave, and setting a strong example for the domestic staff, especially young cabana boy and la bonne et belle bianca castafiore', who refuses to wear the gas mask in preference for a thick hijab, topped by a wet bandana that has also been liberally spritzed with some sort of vanilla after-shower body spray.  fred?  fred is ASLEEP.  i kissed him softly on his broad forehead and promised to meet up in the afterlife.
*****************************************************************************************************

andy murray beat my beloved djokovic -- the brits must be going ape shit.  

and i couldn't watch because i cannot see the freaking ball.  sniff.

on paper, this wimbledon looks to be a brave new world, all topsy-turvy.

i really do love novak... he's hilarious.  as for andy, i confess to thinking him permanently jinxed, forever a quarter finalist, or if further advanced, a practitioner of my favorite tennis art form -- the "choke."

did you watch?  and you've said nary a mot about the tour de france.  now, when i see any reference to that little bike race, i automatically yell "eff you, lance!" another weird habit to extinguish.

you'd love this.  you'd love to photograph this!  about two days ago, being as perceptive and sensitive as i am, i noted that both dobby and buddy were farting in my direction with great abandon.  i chose to ignore it -- gag, cough, gag -- and was glad that marmy currently doesn't hang with me.



yesterday morning, the two farters worked in fine-tuned tandem fashion to wake me the hell up.  thinking they were hungry, i rolled toward the kitchen.  marmy joined us.  the three of them normally assume a rotating shark pattern rotation as i fill their food bowls but yesterday, they all went and milled anxiously around the top of the wheelchair ramp, occasionally drifting about halfway down, then hustling back.  clearly perturbed by something in the back -- a sudden washer/dryer paranoia, a lion crouching under hank's work bench?

i ain't afeared of no machinery and the lion reference was pure hyperbole, so i headed back there, noting that the three cats were making the sign of the cross and remaining kitchen-bound.

two giant freaking pit bulls sitting on our screened-in back porch.  you know, the screened-in back porch that used to have a DOOR leading to the backyard?  both had their noses pressed against the glass of the back door to the house, not realizing, I guess, that they could probably break that one down, too.

so, both belong to our mower-obsessed neighbor, richard.  he keeps four pit bulls in separate runs in his pristine backyard, carefully maintained (dogs, runs, and yard).  very detail oriented, it would kill richard to know he had two escapees.  he and his family don't socialize with the dogs -- no play,  no walks, they are there for protection of property purposes alone.  this has bothered us enormously -- but he has provided them with pals, obedience training {rolling of the eyes}, and high end shelter.

well, he has one escapee who is just so darned charismatic and cute that he talked his compatriot into the adventure.  we call this young mr. smooth "scooby-doo" because he does a great impression.  when he barks at us, we feel like we're in a comic strip, and he nearly wags himself to death.  his older friend, however, appears to be feeling poorly, and hank (my eyes) tells me he has flies congregating on a spot on his back -- not a good sign.  he's also itchy -- scratching a lot, and looking punk and miserable.

the two centers of the feline universe are their habitual feeding location (kitchen) and the litter box alley (in the back, with the washer and dryer and fred's tools, etc. -- you know, the area that oversees the back porch, now pit bull territory.

hence all the farting, funny knock-kneed walking about, dilated pupils, and insistence that i get the hell up and DO SOMETHING.  

fred was not feeling great and after going to bed with the sunrise, got up around 3 pm.  while waiting for his input, i at least managed to move one of the litter boxes out of the direct line of sight of the terrifying behemoths and that solved the immediate problem.  in fact, once "relieved," buddy the outrageously large maine coon, went and pressed his nose to the glass on the back door, going eyeball to eyeball with the two huge dogs.  that's buddy for ya!  however, when scooby-doo greeted him with a resounding "uh-woof?" -- buddy flew to the kitchen to give report to the feline cohort huddled beside the refrigerator.

they are still there.  the dogs, i mean.  (richard and family are apparently out of town for the holiday weekend)  i caved and put some water out but they must be going back and forth as they showed no interest, just acknowledging my intrusion onto their doorless screened-in back porch with some soft "uh-woof?"s.  (punctuation rules requested)

will keep you posted.  fred is still sleeping.  am i being punked.  is this groundhog day, the movie, part 46?

i caught sight of a glint in my beloved's eye last night.  he wants 'em.  

he ain't gonna have 'em.  
1.  they "belong" to richard.
2.  constipation sufficient to raise the terror alert status would rapidly ensue, and i would die, not from crps or a bone infection, but from cat fart poisoning.

hope you are well.  i loves ya!  see ya in heaven if ya make the list!



Friday, July 5, 2013

TED Talk: The doubt essential to faith (Lesley Hazleton)




When Lesley Hazleton was writing a biography of Muhammad, she was struck by something: The night he received the revelation of the Koran, according to early accounts, his first reaction was doubt, awe, even fear. And yet this experience became the bedrock of his belief. Hazleton calls for a new appreciation of doubt and questioning as the foundation of faith -- and an end to fundamentalism of all kinds.

For Rachel Jeantel

I've forsworn myself,
a thinning sin, a setting
sun, a skinning,
a skinning, an imprinting
punctated stigma,
the neutered past
participle of that
charismatic prick,
the concrete enigma
of pungere
 
from which we agree
to punctuate: we pause we delay we
stutter sinning we stutter in the juncture
we stutter we shudder with interruptions
and lines gone dead we end we
puncture we question we declame we
exclaim we cry we
die we delay we
structure the rupture
of the dominant language.
 
We disorient under
the thundering debris
of English.
 
(And Lo, the angel of the Lord,
yo, came on them and man,
were they sore afraid,
so afraid of the woe
of Lo, yo.)
 
There remains
no zen in me, my moi,
because there never
was any zen, just creole
patois for "english,"
that is, "angle,"
defrenchified anglais,
"mè" short for "mamè"
meaning nun, "chèsè,"
there never was any zen
just foreign din,
malevolent djinn:
"a welter of discordant sounds."
 
Djinn, tatted men
who send you 
-- not by brass-rubbed wish --
into a swirling tee,
that intersection 
of green and gravel,
sand, cement,
water and love,
no matter what,
teen love versus lawmen,
green love, gravel love,
sand love, cement love,
water love, no matter
what love, but not what
I cannot believe,
dead love, mean
love forcing me naked
before the world
of that swirling tee --
 
But he never said a mumblin' word
Not a word, not a word, not a word.
 
-- leaving just the running
mumbling stitch 
of her angry, abashed,
and afflicted trying,
 
astray and trying,
broken and trying,
bothered -- burdened -- beset -- and trying.
 
In most of the mixed-language
areas of this Babel world,
mixed by need, habit,
and daily use, no dictionary, no
linguists, no school, no
school marms' nun-knuckle-
rapping bruise to heed,
"English" can be
"an English,"
and came to be when serving,
scrubbing, raising children,
raising children of the mèt,
raising children of the chèf,
scraping, eking by, 
but needing to say
a thing or two
along the trodden way.
 
Words that come to be
in such a way
are fuses, short
and long, sluices
and dams.
 
"English" can be 
"an English"
 
-- and often is --
 
and it means:
not me.
Not us.
Non-me, non-us: 
 
"You got it?"
"You. Got. To. Un. Der. Stand."
 
You might have noticed
-- which is precisely
and concisely what
smut rut we need
to discuss:
that twitch
of knowing;
the obscenity
of pretending
not to know;
and the running
mumbling stitch 
of her angry, abashed,
and afflicted trying.
 
Let me tell you
of freeborn slaves
or the leeway
of tidal waves
of a girl
who cannot read
yet can, who cannot
speak, yet does:
 
"You got it?";
"You. Got. To. Un. Der. Stand."
 
She who knows
depravity when
she hears it
pull a gun,
 
in the din, 
in the greeny djinn glen
 
-- and the running,
mumbling stitch 
of angry embarrassed
trying, knowing a mumbling
word, and crying.
 
But he never said a mumblin' word
Not a word, not a word, not a word.
 
Leaving just the running,
mumbling stitch 
of her angry, abashed,
and afflicted trying.


Tuesday, July 2, 2013

for dad



i keep coming back to this song, for all four of us. dad died a year ago tomorrow, though no one knows, really, if he did not maybe curl up on the couch and die late in the evening on july 2.  no one saw.  margaret found him, of course, curled up so cozy dead.  but this song is not for her.  this is for us four.  if dad can hear music.

doubtful.

okay, so this is for me and bobby and howie, and maybe the gist of it will howl around the old man.


I come from a long line
High and low and in between
Same as you
Hills of golden
Hails of poison
Time’s thrown me through
And I believe I’ve come to learn
That turnin’ round
Is to become confusion
And the gold’s no good for spending
And the poison’s hungry waiting

What can you leave behind
When you’re flyin’ lightning fast
And all alone?
Only a trace, my friend,
Spirit of motion born
And direction grown.
A trace that will not fade
In frozen skies
Your journey will be
And if her shadow doesn’t seem much company
Who said it would be?

There is the highway
And the homemade lovin’ kind
The highway’s mine
And us ramblers are getting the travelling down
You fathers build with stones
That stand and shine
Heaven’s where you find it
And you can’t
Take too much with you
But daddy, don’t you listen
It’s just this highway talkin’

All things that are alive
Are brothers in the soil
And in the sky
And I believe it
With my blood
If not my eyes
I don’t know why we can’t
Be brothers here
I know we should be
Answers don’t seem easy
And I’m wonderin’
If they could be

-- townes van zandt