Shove

I stood on the stage with a grad student actor, the director dim in the empty space, straggling actors watching, or not. She paced and smoked beside me, statuesque, expertly made up, be-thonged, potent. She shoved me. I backed up, annoyed. She shoved me with both hands, hard, again. I stepped back again, alarmed. She moved to raise her hands again, and I braced, threatened, cornered, immovable. I would not be shoved a third time.

"AH! I knew you had fight in you!" She triumphed.

"Asshole!" I did not say to her.

She explained this was an actor exercise, proving her theory I was only to be pushed so far, then I would fight. That I was strong, despite my apparent deference and shyness. I felt used, manipulated, I never forgot. I knew I was restraining rage. That my inner core was steely fury was a backward compliment.

I thought about my parents, and my brothers today. Of my disinclination to have any contact, any relationship with any of them. They perhaps pushed me once too often, the game grew tiresome to me, pointless. This apathy on my part grows not from anger, but from my enlightened laziness. Any amount of energy into the functional, none into the extraneous and irritating. Much of my decision not to pursue a theatrical path, not wanting to play aimless games. Not for a living.

I never forgot. This was not a surprize to me, that I would retreat and retreat, then bite. I wonder if my resolute decision caught my genetic family blindsided. When I lived there, no attack on my part could have been effective. I bided. Even after all, I did not strike out. No, I shut the door, locked it tight, and walked far, far away. Not playing. Not mad, not anything. The rage has leaked away, over the decades, leaving deep disinterest.

The fight is still strong, but for, no longer against. Not shoving back, nor falling for artificial tests of my character. What others think of me is none of my business. I know what I am.

Crumble (Photo)

"Words fail
Buildings tumble
The ground opens wide."


She's Actual Size.
They Might Be Giants.

Haiku (#16)

Ruthless discarding.
I save my own pottery
the last of it's kind.

Delish

Anna's poem, here quoted, deserves illumination and illustration.

Zhoen's cat is really too swish
To eat from a crude pet-store dish,
This fastidious diner
Sups from blue and white china,
Licks his whiskers & says
"How delish."

Food (Limerick)

All the kitties line up to pose
For yummies that tickle their nose.
They held back from our cat
Til safety tested,for that.
now it's sure, and it's at Trader Joe's.


It was never an issue, but they took their cat food off their shelves, tested it, and only then made it available. TODAY. After all the questions, I consider this a corporate act worthy of loyalty. Moby doesn't care, he just loves the stuff, and his eyes brighten, his coat shines, and he wants to chase more.

Yup, this is what thinkin' bloggers think about. Uh, huh.

Think

I Should Be Allowed To Think

They Might Be Giants.

I saw the best minds of my generation/
Destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical/
I should be allowed to glue my poster/
I should be allowed to think./

And I should be allowed to blurt the merest idea/
If by random whim, one occurs to me/
If necessary, leave paper stains on the grey utility pole./

I saw the worst bands of my generation/
applied by magic marker to dry wall/
I should be allowed to shoot my mouth off/
I should have a call in show./

I am not allowed
To ever come up with a single original thought
I am not allowed
To meet the criminal government agent who oppresses me

I was the worst hope of my generation
Destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical
I should be allowed to share my feelings
I should be allowed to feel
I should be allowed to think
I should be allowed to think

Both Mella at Empty Sky and Poor Mad Peter in Another Country tell me I actually am thinking, and nominate mine as a Thinking Blog.

What's more, now I have to nominate more folks to increase dopamine and brain convolutions. Not to mention give me html fits. The Blogistan list of links isn't enough, oh no. I have to narrow this down to the folks who give me ideas, challenge me, grab my brain like a terrier and shake it until new stuff drops through the Conscious slot. Fine. This is them.


Whiskey Searches all over for the best words, the ones with sharp edges and the brightest lights, curator of thought and wisdom.

Mole creates perspective, looks deep inside himself, never flinching, honestly revealing every lie and shadow, comes out the other side all bruised and torn, takes a breath, and goes back through from the other direction.

Self Winding Patricia sits quietly, and the truth comes and lights on her, then she makes a breathtaking photograph of it, she is amazed.

Language Hat never stops thinking, in several languages. In this deluge of expression, he sees the universe turning on an obscure phrase or a common word, and laughs.

I know, I know, I keep trying to shove you all over to read Moira at Blue Abstractions, and then try to get her to write and post more of her dense, warm, luminous photos. However neglected her site, I know this woman. Her thoughts are down to the core and streaking across the sky, a constant challenge and balm to me.

I know this is a hard assignment, at a time when the blogging bug seems to be going around, and so many of us are at low ebb. Think about it, though. Reaching out to others is a great way to pull out of one's own misery.

Haiku (#15)

Four days in a row
to live in my own rhythms
Under the roil, strength.

Princess

I got thinking about princesses. Must have been from walking through the mall, the nearest restrooms to the catgrass shop. An impression of pink fluffiness and pseudo-crowns. Brewing since I saw Little Miss Sunshine. (Recommended with caution.) Then a documentary about Superman. (I never liked Superman.)

I recalled reading about adolescent girls having sexual disfunction or promiscuity related to being rejected at puberty by fathers who had treated them, as little girls, as "daddy's little princess." Mind, this was one study, and I have no way to reference it, or confirm a lightly read article from so long ago. My own father's attitude to my menarche is not to be compared, and I hated him long before. But something about the idea stayed in my head.

The wedding industry has gone nuts, fueled by this princess (Di?) fantasy. Beauty contests and Disney movies. I despair of equality, feminism has been shoved aside in the stampede toward airy royal femininity. I get the appeal, I loved Leslie Ann Warren as Cinderella, confectionary dresses, the sparkly tiaras, clouds of lace and taffeta, satin, silk, velvet. I yearned to be Miss America in a frilly gown. Bellydance scarves fed that need for dress-up, glamour, shine. This is not a rant against playful girlishness.

It's the form. A Princess is a princess because she is the daughter of a king, or the wife of a prince. It is a material, consumerist fantasy, woman as decorative object, dependent, her power only what is given, nothing earned. Not from within herself.

I would change it, without taking away the decoration. To a magical fantasy figure, perhaps, fairy or Kami. At least the tutus and frou-frou would be the costume of their attributes, from within the personality of their imaginations. Not stuff to be bought, nor fake riches to be hoarded. Not display for approval or acceptance, just an expression of flight and softness, bright color and raven love, for it's own sake. Like boys allowed to don superhero capes, let girls fly on magic wings. Not sit around waiting for a prince. Let them outgrow it as they let go of other childhood fantasies.

Would it make that much of a difference? Maybe not. Surely, there will just be more potent marketing, and a "Fairy Princess Day". There will just be more magic wands. Was Bewitched a better idea of how to solve problems, for me as a little girl desperate to blink away my problems? What better stories would both let them play at pretty, without making it a central part of their worth?

What can I offer my two fairygoddaughters, to nourish their imaginations? What small, long distance tools can I send? What would be a blessing? Or just my own tale as Fool of the World?

Sun (Photo)

Grass (Photos)

Yup. Made the trip for cat grass. We'll be cleaning up green vomit the rest of the week. He stuffed his face in, and made the feline equivalent of "OH, dude!" espressions.

Doing

The sun is out, the rainfogmist has cleared, my mood has eased a bit. Pacian has given me memage, which I have adjusted, as I do.


1. I am doing - a bit of packing. 

2. I am listening to - dishwasher whirring.

3. Maybe I should - go get Moby some catgrass.

4. I love - strong people. Which of course means D primarily. 

5. My 'ex' is still - alive.

6. I don't understand - how much effort people put into doing stuff the hard way to avoid work.

7. I lost my respect for - unearned authority.

8. I last ate - pistachios.

9. The meaning of my display name is - my real name, exoticified. 

10. Love is - spread messily, and leaks everywhere, when it's real. 

11. Someday - I'd like a garden. 

12. I will always - try to be kind. 

13. I never ever want to lose - the affection of those I love.

14. When I woke up this morning - I napped a little longer.

15. I get annoyed at - willful blindness.

16. Parties - make me itchy. 

17. My pet - is a cat with gravitas.

18. Kisses - are welcome.

19. Today I - slept a lot.

20. I wish - I could teleport.

21. I really want - home

Haiku (#14)

Knotted tight and hard
my angry snarled frustration
Untie with a sword.

Bees

The Bees are in trouble, and so are we. "The theory is that radiation from mobile phones interferes with bees' navigation systems, preventing the famously homeloving species from finding their way back to their hives."

Well, we all hate cell phones anyway.

Haiku (#13)

I married, this time,
Intelligence and reason
a lovely adult.

Haiku (#12)

That medium bowl
Winter socks, the pie turner
I think I packed them.

Stout (Photos)

Worthy of the Glass.

Haiku (#11)

We both are cranky
Time runs too fast and too slow
we yo-yo between.

Croissant (Photos)

He likes the blanket in a roll. Paw looks much better today.

Haiku (#10)

Attention drawn small
The fissured pad of a paw
He demands my skills.


A poem about a Grackle that made me laugh. Then look up grackle on wiki. Thank you Nancy Ruth, and your dear one Bill.

Blood

Blood has a smell.

Moby was vocal, at 4AM, eloquent cat poems, with a note of complaint, as is usual on the occasions he choses to speak. Not meow, not howl, but the best he can do with a predator's mouth, no lips, sharp teeth. D got up, and unloaded the dishwasher in pursuit of a milk glass, as I stumbled out into the dimly lit kitchen.

Moby follows me around as I get dressed, stepping up onto my half socked foot, and pressing his teeth to my big toe, which is odd. We decide to give him some of the good canned cat food, hoarded, not replenishable until the Recall is over. As he scarfs loudly, I notice what looks like dropped corn flakes, or flower petals all over the kitchen floor.

"Did you drop something on the floor?" I ask, and turn the light up. I wonder if the now paw shaped marks are tomato sauce, and did we leave any out? The little spots are scattered onto the carpet, and Moby's blanket on the stool. I stoop, wet my finger, rub some of the stain, and sniff.

I know the tang of blood, sticky and acrid. As soon as he is done eating, to his great irritation, I pick him up, and a smear of blood from his paw crosses my thumb. I try to blot with a tissue, to see the source. Over his objections, I wrestle him, with D's help, to a position to examine his paw. The same pad that gets irritated, swollen, dry, but the vet didn't have a good treatment, and it usually doesn't bother him, aside from, perhaps 'feeling funny' or maybe itching, based on his behaviour. He does not react with a painful pull-back when I press the pad. There is a tear, though and fissures extending to his toe pads. And it's bleeding, oozing.

Mind you, it's 5AM. I'm in the middle of packing. I know I want some coban ( a magic dressing that only sticks to itself, used in vet medicine often.) Cannot find it, and don't want him running around. D holds him, while I search. What I find is an ampule of a sort of bioglue, liquid bandage, accidentally brought home in a pocket from the evening before. Used to seal small lacerations in children, or for difficult to suture areas, faces, plastic surgery. Perfect.

It ain't pretty. It does sting. I hold him tight, his back to my belly, my arm holding his paws out from under his armpits, an undignified posture, which amuses D out of the worst of his worry, until the stuff has a chance to dry properly. Moby is fairly sanguine about this part, for long enough.

I am getting short on time, hungry, still not thinking well. D encourages me to play hookey, and I don't resist. What are they going to do? Take away my raise next year? Empty threat. I stay home, and make sure Moby is ok. D would have stayed home if I had not, and he did not need that today, for unrelated reasons.

So, D mops the kitchen, I spot clean the scores of bloody paw prints on the carpet, both of us are down with brushes finally. Moby is sitting in the bedroom, ruffled, but not chewing.

Why? Cat version of nail biting? Missing his favorite smelly food? Lancing a sore? His paw actually looks much better, now, than it has for months. I'll apply glycerine frequently, as a tardy precaution, starting tomorrow.

D and Moby crashed on the bed for an hour. Well, Moby is still there, calm, apparently not much bothered. Watching my comings and goings, accepting of my comfort and affection.


The thoughts going through my head, as I searched for tiny drops of blood, all over the TV stand, were that I hoped there would never be a crime scene in this apartment, or they are going to be confused by the presence of old cat blood. And that Moby, in Cat, was telling us that he was having a spot of trouble with his paw, and could we please make it right. Now.

Haiku (#9)

Violent barrage
Of wind blown rain fog mist snow
Spring bleeds green beneath.

Haiku (#8)

Three more boxes packed
accumulation of lists
cooking for Moby.



Trader Joe's has voluntarily taken their beloved wet canned cat food off the shelves, as a precaution. Which is good, really, I suppose. But now I have to keep a hungry cat fed. Willingly, sure, but, I'm not the best cook. I will to the wings and giblets, add some of the kibble, wet it down, so that he gets his taurine.

I had a flash of inspiration, while cooking for Moby, as Aunt Alma did for her fat black poodle, Gigi. Gigi entered the family shortly after me, and was my most beloved companion, as I was hers. Aunt Alma always knew when my parents were about to stop by, because Gigi would not leave the front window. She knew when I was near. I would throw her ball for her again and again. I am told I brushed her teeth with my toothbrush when I was small. I abetted her in the theft of my steak, once. I looked at Moby, who was originally named Midnight, like the lovable and mellow black cat who tolerated rides on my shoulders when a cat was the only person I could have carried at all.

And I considered reincarnation.

Gigi, Midnight, Moby. Hopefully, the reward for many well lived lives.

Haiku (#7)

Through the dark, the chime
The dream holds me close and warm
Duty swings my feet.








I spoke with an unkind person about the value of kindness today. She, of course, agreed heartily, unaware of how she is seen, how often her actions and words are cruel. I wonder how often I seem mean when I try to be of use, grateful, helpful.

Haiku (#6)

Cold wet wind whips knives
The sun shyly warms an arm
Gusts steal ease from knees.


I've just heard, I have been offered my old job back, anew. Different sort of place, after three years, of course. Different people, different job in many ways. But, well, home. D told me, 'of course, they'd have to be crazy not to hire you.' Which left a possible loophole. My former manager would have taken me on, but she's going to the new hospital, and a different manager had to interview me for the older place. I never want to take this sort of thing for granted.

We have a possible apartment, but not definite, not yet, still looking. Just in case.

We have a downpayment on a car (necessary there), but it may not be available until a couple weeks in, and we have little choice in the color. Will have to rent a vehicle, perhaps.

D received a letter, welcoming him to the PhD program, but as he held the envelope, we both had the momentary terror that it was to inform him of a terrible mistake.

We have movers, but a five day window for the day they will take our stuff.

I spent the weekend packing, and discarding. We have much less stuff than we did three years ago, our friends will be happy to learn. Not that we will expect moving help from them this time.

We worry. It's what we do.

Haiku (#5)

I rolled a blanket
on the bed in a croissant
cat knows it's for him

Haiku (#4)

Boxes gape open
hungry, empty, awaiting.
No place to stash them.

Haiku (#3)

Three AM the cat
walks probing feet over us
could be time to eat.

Haiku (#2)

Old job, new boss hires,
Gut churns, phoned questions, anguish.
What was it I said?

Haiku (#1)

The rain fog mist drifts
mud wetly slurps into socks
sad grass needs to sponge.




Beware, I'm in a mood to inflict bad poetry on all and sundry. This may become a theme of the waiting.

Wait (Photo)

57 Days. Tom Petty is right.

Job

"Wow, I'm glad you can do this, I know I couldn't!"

Versions on "I don't know how you do this work." I hear it often. But I feel the same about other's jobs. I don't know how surgeons can keep going and going, then find themselves with a bit of difficult anatomy, more damage, friable vessels that require tedious repairs, a bone fixation that looks good until the x-ray shows it not, and they have to start all over again, another whole procedure that needs to happen, family called for consent, and hours more fiddly, careful process.

I don't know how school teachers manage, all those little aliens running around, uninvolved parents complaining, principles and school boards and the mass of government breathing down their necks, yet they somehow manage to teach most of the little buggers something.

I don't know how EMTs manage, underpaid and making up their job as they go along. Or police, dealing with drunks and users, criminals and violence, as well as innocent victims and ordinary citizens, amazing more are not alcoholic and or corrupt. Most are good folks doing a difficult job.

I don't know how anyone survives cubicleville, sitting all day, keeping some kind of focus on doing a job. Every day, the same schedule, the paper, the memos, the meetings. IT guys, with everyone ragging on them all day, as they deal with users who are afraid to restart the computer, don't know how to check that everything is plugged in, eat over their keyboards, and want perfection at all times, then panic to the Help Desk when it is not.

I don't know how dancers and actors and musicians cope with always having to find another gig to pay rent.

I am in my right job, I love it more than it annoys me. What seems like it would be hard from those who it would not fit, are usually not the hard bits. The gross stuff, is just like the nuts and bolts of any job, it becomes background noise very quickly. The paperwork, is my way of communicating - a small point of satisfaction. The emotional wreckage, is practiced. The worst was finding the words at first, now I have patter that comes on. Genuinely meant, but the phrases are well used, the jokes well worn in, I know what to say, because I have done it so often before. I feel that emotional connection gives back far more than it takes away, to both me and the patient and family. I pour it out, and it flows back down to me. Tales to tell, souls to cherish. The absurdity of people to laugh about.

The difficult aspects are all about being hindered in doing my work well. Having to work around the people who are supposed to be helping. Equipment or supplies not available. Petty cliques. Sharp corners and the resultant bruises. Armless anesthesiologists (Those look like arms, but they don't do anything.) The inept, the new, the clueless, the irritating. Just like in every other job, joy or misery is all about who you work with.

Think you couldn't do my job? I feel the same way about yours.