Stream of Consciousness

The Rain, Cat Fights, Wood Fires

It's Wednesday night, Day of the Dead, and the autumn rains have returned. Is returned the right verb? Because they are predicted, expected, part of the natural order, what is expected, necessary, even if what I'm doing right now is listening to a poetry reading on what's likely to be a rerun of South Park. One cat on the orange plumpy chair; another on Sinclair's rocker. The feline pheromone diffuser working its $45 alleged wonder behind me, the socket next to the tower of jazz CDs.

Let Me Tell You About My Day

The moon and the flowers,
forty-nine years,
walking around, wasting time.

—Issa

Coffee upon waking. The sound of the radio alarm from the guest room buzz buzz buzzing so I have to trundle downstairs to turn that off. Cat food in a bowl, the sliding glass open so Ping can, at his whimsy, stroll in and out. The water running at the upstairs bathroom sink because that's how my cat prefers to drink while I write nonsense in my morning pages, read e-mail, read some news to get my blood boiling—is that why I do it so soon after waking?—try to download the Quicktime clip called "Is Bush an Idiot" then give up and turn on the classical music show in time to get that the Piano Puzzler was Bach but like the contestant, I didn't know the name of the song.

Homework was to write a blues song, something to do with the wayward ways of love, so I started in on that. After a bit of tinkering and help from a rhyming dictionary I came up with something passable, rooted in journal entries from wow, fourteen years back. The vagaries of memory meet moony, lovesick prose. I finished packing the former Powerbook box to send to Pennsylvania—more clothes, toiletries, and books for my upcoming family visit trip. The first of two loads of laundry begun. With no food in the house, I was reduced to bean dip and chips to energize myself enough to get out the door to run the morning's errands. The most pressing the Fed Ex drop-off. The most exciting, stopping at the humane society to see Az the Cat. Construction on 53rd street, machines and mostly men digging long ditches along the road to put in new water lines. Then, at Safeway, all their credit card machines are down. I drop off the latest prescription—this for an ointment for my rosacea because, in order to take it on the airplane, I now need the prescription with my name on. Don't you love this War on Terra?

Back road, dirt road to Fed Ex, past fields with rectangles of stacked hay, sheep, the guy on the corner of Airport Road with a dozen or more bicycles fastened to his chain link fence—a political statement? art? At Fed Ex, the woman agrees all this fuss about hair gel and cosmetics is a foolish waste of time. At the shelter, Az has been moved to the sick room because he's caught a cold. Melanie lets me catch a glimpse of him and he appears to be a sweet boy. I fill out the paperwork, read about why the previous owner surrendered him (allergies but they have three other cats, what is that?) and take another tour of the ridiculous and hyperactive kittens hanging from bungees in their cages in the cattery. Downtown and Safeway again where debit cards work and I buy the rest of the pitiful ingredients for the B.L.T. that is to be my belated lunch. Finally, I make my way home. Where I've been ever since, puttering, reading movie reviews and adding films to our Netflix queue, finding out the dates/times for Spike Lee's HBO movie When the Levees Broke, reading haiku and the newest New Yorker, taking a nap, listening to Randi rant on Air America, sending e-mails, watching the hummingbirds come to the fuchsia hanging baskets, filling the bird feeder, the bird bath, releasing the dead mouse from the under-sick trap into the compost, hauling recyclable glass in the pickup up the hill where I also get the mail, cooking two ears of sweet corn for my appetizer/dinner, interacting with Ping and his various meowings which seem to involve wanting doors open, water running, or treats. Who now rests in a furry curl on the nearby ottoman and it's all of seven PM.

Letting a day happen, is that what it is I've done? After some back-and-forth debate about whether I really wanted to see The Devil Wears Prada enough to head back down the hill and interact with strangers at the Regal Cinema until I realized I preferred a nap and the answer was thus no. The clean laundry folded, the bed changed, the new cotton sheets tucked. Watering the kitchen orchid, the front door foyer cyclamen. Peeling the corn over the compost so I can immediately throw the husks in. Pressing the normal button to start the dishwasher. Filling a brown cone with coffee so that another day can begin with the simple turning of a button from off to on.

And through all this I thought about death. Why? Because of worries I've squandered yet another too-precious, never-again day? Thought, as I have many times, of what is there to fear, everything must face this, every one, even the great ones, Einstein came to mind, who knows why? And what does it matter if it's like sleep or something else, because it's done and over and what was my life but this record, these words, my pitiful or not so pitiful attempt to tell the story of what I saw, what I lived, my window on the world from my self?

Another haiku from Issa:

Fiftieth birthday:

From now on,
it's all clear profit,
every sky.

The Cat Inside

Who knew that William S. Burroughs was a cat lover who could write these words about his pets:

"April 2, 1985: Ruski is on the desk by the north window. I pet him. He squeaks and nuzzles me and goes to sleep. I feel his sad, lost voice in my throat, stirring, aching. When you feel grief like that, tears streaming down your face, it is always a portent, a warning—danger ahead."

Burroughs sees cats as our Familiars, a presence that travels along with us, reminder of who we really are, companions for where we are heading. My abject grief at my beloved Balthazar's departure three months ago this week is put into context by more of his words from The Cat Inside:

"The ancient Egyptians went into mourning for the loss of a cat and shaved their eyebrows. And why shouldn't the loss of a cat be as poignant and heartfelt as any loss? Small deaths are the saddest, sad as the death of monkey."

My Mule, Sal

I'm having a hard time listening to Bruce sing about a mule tonight and not miss my animal, my devoted cat/companion, departed this world 18 May 2006, Balthazar. What does matter, real estate investments or the best possible cat this side of the known universe who left, altruistically that day, to accompany a woman dying way-too-soon of hideous cancer on her journey? What does it matter, publications blurbs or a community of people and animals who adore you? Is this the freak-out of a 50 year old wash-up or the stark, raving, lunatic truth?

Rain, Friday Morning, Gray, Gone

I've been frittering away an empty Friday morning, missing my writing buddy, missing my beloved cat companion I talked to so many days working here at home this past nearly eight years. His routines, his habits: everywhere I look I can see him sleeping on the large bed pillows, on a heat grate when the heat pumps kicks on because it's so cold today, or here on my desk or the black desk chair, meowing because he wants to "work." I didn't even turn on the classical music radio program this morning. Wrote a page or two in the jounral and that fizzled out. Time on the phone dealing with various airplane reservations—trip to Ontario/Quebec in late July, trip to Pennsylvania in late August—at least felt productive. I need now to dive into working on a poem. But maybe I'll go buy more catnip so we can work on making a little memorial to Balthazar this cold, gray holiday weekend. But I'm moving slow and it's hard to want to even leave the house.

The Dude is Softer

The Dude has been logging many hours working at the computer today. I spent the morning revising prose poems. There's a lucrative line of work. Since his sub-cutaneous fluid treatments, I have to admit, the Dude seems softer and perkier. Nothing like a little water flush of the ailing, aging kidney to put the spring in a seventeen year old cat's step again. Seriously, this cat is my comfort and it is so worth it to prolong the quality of his life simply by learning how to inject a needle under his hide and squeeze a lactated ringer down another 100ml. Even normally resisting C. has become a willing participant. Balthazar, one of the best cats who's ever lived. In the night, thinking about Timmy Treadwell Grizzly Man, I realized, I talk to my cats but my cat is a comfort not a wild, unpredictable beast. It's just an odd fact that he was originally from Fairbanks, Alaska. Or maybe not?

Balthazar's Blog: 24/7

I'd work round-the-clock if she'd let me. She's on a tear tonight, home from the co-op late, 9 pm, and so I'm logging lap time while she checks e-mail and news and decides if she has anything worthwhile on her mind besides Walla Walla onions to write about on her Stream of Consciousness blog. I don't much care. I go for the lap and when positions shift, there's always the wall-to-wall carpeted floor. Today was cooler. Perfect cat lounging weather out on the upper, Emperor Gong deck. Albacore earlier before she left and then the high-fat crunchie cat food when she returned. Who cares about the future when you're living in moments filled with that?

Balthazar's Blog: Forced to be a Halliburton Contractor

Does any other seventeen year old cat in the universe have his owner pick him up, like a vacuum cleaner, carry him to the lowest level of the house and put him to work, tracking a mole that the other cat, that formally feral idiot, brought in the house and let go, to see what fireworks and fun might ensue? I've sought out the goosedown comforter instead of wallowing in these minor leagues. I'll say no more. Actually, I'll say, with gusto, aloha!

Balthazar's Blog: Escape to a Laundry Basket

My nemesis Ping is lurking around the corner, trying to thwart my morning nap at every step. I've fixed him. Jumped into the wicker basket on top of the cedar chest. It won't matter that the clean clothes inside it -- a flannel pajama top, a pillowcase, piles of yet unfolded underwear -- will be covered by cat hairs by the time I'm done. I'm hunkered down, hidden and Ping -- who isn't the brightest bulb on the marquee -- can't see me. Hip hip hooray. A few hours, minutes, seconds of peace!

Ping's Blog: Why Do They Ruin My Fun?

By killing the critters I love to bring into the house to play with? They're much more fun alive than dead. I can zoom, wrinkling up rugs and careening around corners. I can crouch and sniff and wait and every now and then bat at the frightened little creature until it runs around and I get to chase it some more. I'd rather eat Pounce treats on the kitchen rocking chair than a mole body anyday. So why do they always ruin my fun?