No One Is Alone

My sister-in-law's cat, Tigger, died during the night. He had apparently been ailing for a few months, but hid his true level of deterioration--as cats are wont to do--until yesterday evening as Jen checked-in on him. It was only then he revealed a hint of discomfort in his utterances that told his companion since kittenhood a different world was calling. After the kids were put to bed and plans to visit the vet were made, Jen sat with her friend in a gentle reverie of 13 years together. I'm sure many bugs and birds were remembered, as well as funny memories of the 'nip and playful frolics in sprier days (Tigger got his name, after all, due to his positive--not to mention, bouncy--demeanor).

We people have schedules to maintain, lives to keep in order, children to raise. But as bed was calling and quiet fell on the warm laundry room that had become Tigger's chosen space for convalescing, Gabby, the family's other feline member, crept-in to let Jen know it was OK for her to take her leave. Gabby, though still in top form, is actually a bit older than Tigger and tended to mother him quite a bit when he first came into the fold. Their relationship had been seemingly distant for years but, last night, Gabby chose to lie next to her adopted child/friend/lover/partner in his moment of weakening.

As dawn broke and the house began to rouse itself, my brother, Sean, carried himself down the stairs to see how the patient was doing. And though he was to find Tigger's body void of its soul, there lie Gabby preening and prawning and caressing her now-lost friend. As cats are wont to do, she had never left his side...

Be in peace, sweet Tigger. May you bring the angels as much happiness as you brought your family here on earth.

You move just a finger,
Say the slightest word,
Something's bound to linger,
Be heard ...

No one is alone,
Believe me.
Truly...

[untitled]

Lost in the haze
Lost in a daze
Lost in your phrase...

It beheld me beautifully.

Does love lie low?
Lamenting loss longingly?
Lingering?

Perhaps.

Yes, perhaps proud Puck
Participated in pontificating
Said precepts.

Oh, sirs.

The phrase said nothing of
A midsummer's night.

The phrase I felt in
The feverish ferment
That februaric night:

"Forever..."

A Poem of Ecological Importance

Verdant.

God! how the fields were verdant.

I ran across them. It was yesterday.

Like a child, I couldn't help myself.

I felt the weeds and grasses and
Wildflowers brush against my shins.

I stopped to scratch my legs.

The tree caught my fall.

Oh, I stopped upon a tree, you see.

As I scratched, I lost my balance
And began to tumble.

I've quite the egg upon my forehead.

I've quite the egg, you see.

Beyond, beside, bepast, before...
Be weary... perhaps?

Behoove me belatedly,
For speaking of the tree.

A brush, an itch, a scratch
And now I've found a Tree.

reminder of an unstable mind

It was like an itch. It was an itch. It was like a cliche. And the stereotype was that it couldn't be scratched.

And it grew.

Which would've been merely unpleasant--a perfect use for calamine, perhaps--if it hadn't started in his head.

And it spread... of course it spread.

The itch, and its accompanying voices. The voices are worse than the itch. With the itch you can just slam yourself against a wall. Or yell at someone, or nothing at all. Or jump on a plane to Pittsburgh and roll around in some Monongahela River sludge.

That helps... a bit.

But the voices stay with you. They have tea with you at 4 o'clock. And they steal the choicest crumpet you had been eyeing while the ladies who lunch droned on and on about some out-of-date fashion you never had much attachment to.

He ran from the voices once. But even surrounded--as he was--by the soothing, humidless splendour of the Pacific Northwest, they caught up.

And he was still scared. And still lost. And still not good enough, or smart enough, or worthy of any affection. Which was fine when that rare voice supporting his cocky stature and credit card use came by... actually let him have the good crumpet.

But they were more often just mean, Old World queens.

They kept the salves to themselves.

And the itch spread.

And the voices laughed.

And sometimes I joined in ...

Surprise!

So, as if you couldn't tell, I've been on a bit of a hiatus the past couple months... and shall remain on one for the time being. I seem far too busy--not to mention feeling drained completely of inspiration--to be regularly reminded to partake in any activity bearing even the subtlest resemblance to blogging.

HOWEVER...

Check in every-so-often as I will continue updating the ever-popular Off the Shelf and Playlists sidebars as well as contribute the occasional I'm still here, damn it! post.

To those who've been curious as to my whereabouts, I thank you for your kind words and wonderings. To all, I hope to return to more frequent ramblings in the near future.

'til then...

excerpt from an email from karl rove to life & style magazine

"In reference to your query regarding anonymous sources: I believe it would be in both of our best interests if your information was simply cited to 'unnamed friends.' [...] Once again, thank you for your assistance in this rather delicate matter."

near sw 4th & washington

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH!

The man trudged toward me, calling out his drunken song:

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH!

It was only almost-melodic--the lilt of his voice wavering between psychotic screaming and world-be-damned celebrating--but a song nonetheless. A chant of defiance, perhaps, as he veered in my direction--for he veered off some indeterminate path much moreso than staggered--clutching a plastic pint bottle of Popov vodka still 3/4 full.

It was 3:15 pm, but I didn't bother to question whether that was too early to be so belligerently soused, though not three blocks away were busy weekend shoppers perusing from Sax Fifth Avenue to Tiffany's to Louis Vuitton... and there were children with them... children from the suburbs, even (not to mention the street kids who were far more inconspicuous in their chemical use). Evenso, the question seemed irrelevant. He had surely been less than sober the great majority of two recent decades. His liver hardly needed a whole four ounces to reach its saturation point, and yet his body was, I presume, thankful for the 12 that remained.

He passed me by without incident, and I continued on my way to turn-in the keys to my old apartment and surprise Pic at work. (Might as well seeing as he only works a few blocks past where I was heading... I do love that silly man.)

But I kept thinking about the old sot and began to feel sorry for him. Having already traveled the path he was now attempting, I knew that in a block or two he'd blindly meander past an officer of the law; one specifically positioned to keep order on the streets. And, though I'm sure he will escape any penalties of the financial or confining sort--even detox is generally used only in the wee hours for those creating a ruckus or who have lost their way--he will certainly be forced to dump his bottle of Popov down the sewer... even though [because] it's still 3/4 full...

...and I doubt he has money for more.

Ahr-errr-AH! Ahr-errr-AH...

i am taking my driving test tomorrow...

and I am terrified...

the roman fascist church

It has been widely reported about the Vatican's release of a devolutionary, misguided document of "instruction" that all but bans gays from the priesthood. As a gay man who is fiercely proud of his Catholic heritage (I am a cultural Catholic, if you will), I am deeply disturbed by this pronouncement from a church that is often surprisingly enlightened when compared to its Christian counterparts of a more fundamentalist mindset. I am in no mood to rattle off a diatribe exposing the backlash of naivete and social conservatism that has been building in the Church since Joseph Ratzinger's predecessor ascended the Throne of Peter nearly 30 years ago. I will note, however, that this reeks of Benedict's Nazi past.

As such, I will proudly show support for my priests who are my teachers and friends and devout men of God whether they be straight or gay or dickless. They're priests, for fuck's sake! I don't give a fuck who they're thinking of while sneaking a whack in the confessional! (And don't give me your bullshit about the sex abuse problem. That is a whole different issue that this document--regardless of the writers' intentions--does nothing to address.)

The world is fucked up enough as is. The last thing we need is another witch hunt.

being busy

I have been so crazy busy the past couple months I've hardly had time to empty Oliveranderson's litter box (and believe you me that's not something you want to let slide... ewwwie! little man stinks!) let alone post anything (though we all know prolificacy has never been my strong suit). But to all you kind enough to read my little ol' blog, I assure you I shall return soon.

So if you'll excuse me for just a bit longer, I really must play catch-up...

(Damn, Ollie-A! What the hell have I been feeding you??)

bush's body armor

Second Chance Body Armor, Inc. is being investigated by the Justice Department to determine whether they knowingly sold defective bullet proof vests. The vests in question were used by such luminaries as the Secret Service, President Bush, and First Lady Laura Bush.

Stephen M. Kohn, a lawyer involved in the case, blasted Second Chance for continuing sales after the defective materials were discovered, saying: "Greed prevailed over the safety of police, soldiers and even the president of the United States. The officials who personally profited from selling the defective vests to law enforcement must be held accountable to the fullest extent of the criminal code."

Greed? Soldiers in harm's way? Capitalism run amok? And they're performing a criminal investigation?

Seems to me they should name Second Chance bullet-proof vests...

the Official Body Armor of the Bush Administration, WPE!