Glaiket

Cats guarding the windows, in turns, in the face of construction vehicle noise from up the street. Lots of beeping and grinding.












Got through yesterday, and as we were finishing up, I was asked to be called off today. I said sure. A headache was building up anyway. By the time I got home, through the smoky, dusty air, it was forming into a sort of migraine. I drugged up, all legal stuff mind, cola for caffeine, naproxen and benedryl, crackers. By 1830 I had to lie down and couldn't keep my eyes open, but the incipient migranouse was seeping away.

Not that I slept exactly, so when the storm blew through about 2030, we sat on the porch and savored the wind and lightning, then the rain. A respectable amount of precipitation in this dry waning summer. I slept after.

Drifted awake, Zeppo came up to head butt me and cuddle. He does get excited, and wants to nibble and kick, not mean, just enthusiastic. Glaikit wee pousie. He's figuring out we don't like it, "Oh, yeah, I forgot..." Then I can scritch his chin, and his giant purr machine revs up again. I don't realize until I get up that it's only 0430.

I'll get a nap later.

Muckle

Muckle smoke out there.


Noticed it on my way home, off to the west side of the valley last night. The Green Ravine fire, apparently. Definitely smoky. The field reporter has a very particular local accent, if you can get past the ad.

Got the sale soil sown around the important perennials, filled a pot and planted indoor catgrass. Sitting and sweating at the moment.

My neighbor came over to give me a hug, we talked about the issues of families, and the vagaries of love and children.

My hand somehow caught the lid of my brown teapot, it flew off and smashed on the floor, it is now in pieces at the bottom of the pot of soil for catgrass. I swore a bit, then picked up the bits. Teapot lids are a persistent design problem. Along with spouts and handles. It's a tricky bit of geometry and pottery together, if it is to be used.

"All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

All well used teapots are alike, each unused teapot is dribbly, leaky, chipped or broken in it's own way.

Anna Karenina Principle..

What is surprizing is not how many broken families there are, but how many are happy.

Wild

A bitter sweetness
Autumnal glow, smoke and fire
Quenching past futures.

Rats

My 4 yr old next-door neighbor wanted to come give me a hug when she heard that my mother died. She did, then told me I had Elsa hair. I told her I thought her hair was beautiful, which it is. Congolese/Persian hair, exuberant and gorgeous. A bright and lovely human she is. I hadn't planned on telling her mom, my lovely neighbor who vies with us to see who can bring in each other's trash bins faster. Circumstances made it more graceful to mention.

My head and my heart were always coping quite well. My body remembered being part of her, and reacted accordingly, or so I have figured out. The two year old that Aunt Alma* cared for, for two weeks when my mother was in hospital for a hysterectomy, sobbed.

Head: Don't look at me, I'm not even thinking about this.
Heart: Hey, all I'm feeling is anger and relief.
Body: (Incohate keening, projectile tears.)

Unpack that* if you like, I've done it a few times, and it still feels a bit off. Aunt Alma held off getting Gigi, her poodle, until after, so she wouldn't be taking care of a new puppy's first weeks, and a toddler she didn't really know well. I've heard, not from her, that she had been some kind of nurse. My mother rationalized that was why she was so unsympathetic around anyone who was sick. I found her always kind and generous, and practical.

My mother was sympathetic, but not very useful. Not quite as aggressively useless as my father. Why the everfuckinghell did these people have children?


As we sat playing the game in the dining room yesterday, Eleanor stared out the front window. Intently. In proper Mouse Stalking Posture. I looked out, and sure enough, there was a rat. We're looking into getting a rat-zapper, for the basement, since we don't let the cats down there. Any that get in the house proper will be savaged. We don't know if Zeppo knows how to kill, but Eleanor surely does, and he learns fast. I nearly feel sorry for the creature. Almost.

We picked up sale soil at the garden center yesterday. Two women, employees, separately, raved about my purple hair. To me, it's faded quite a bit, but I only see it in the mirror. Perhaps out in daylight, and from the back, it's more impressive.

Cleaned a couple of pots to plant grass inside for cats. Cleared away the harvested wheat, sowed it and saved a jarful for cat-grass, as well as the oats. Maybe not put rat-food out in a convenient feeding dish, a bin and basket on the front porch.


*My father couldn't work and take care of his child. My older brothers I think went with different relatives, at least on weekends, while still going to school and taking care of themselves during the week? He refused to let her sister, my Aunt Evelyn take care of me? Whatever went on there, Aunt Alma took good care of me, and our long attachment and friendship, laid down a solid foundation then.

Toasty

Fair
99°F
37°C
Humidity 9%
Wind Speed NW 10 MPH
Barometer 30.03 in
Dewpoint 31°F (-1°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 94°F (34°C)
Last update 01 Sep 3:35 pm MDT


Toasty day, low slanting sun, air in the smoke.


The friends stopped by for brunch, I made waffles, J made scrambled eggs, C brought jam and melba toast. Played Murder of Crows.

Eleanor swirled around our legs. Zeppo stayed back, but I'm sure he was curious. One day, he will make friends with our friends, he will pick the day.






Regrets and shame.

Fever

To Eleanor's dismay, I've started brushing her teeth. Used to do Moby, but he didn't mind, until he got sick. Eleanor has always been excellent at evading, so I gave up. Now that her teeth need to be properly cleaned, appointment made at the vet, it's time. And she's not as good at avoiding it, or I'm better at catching her. Bit of both.



This morning the pain is gone, the twisting confusion has lifted, and I feel sure I'm past the worst of it. Like a fever breaking. Getting emails from my brother made a huge difference. Not because he was kind, but because he's an idiot, still talking down to me. But it's a bit like when a child corrects you, and clearly hasn't a clue. Non-medical people giving me a medical message as if I were a kid, and they have it askew, always amuses me. My brother does take after his father. I do not correct, it doesn't matter. Nothing to do with me.

I knew when I accepted* my father's disownment, and then estranged myself from both of them, that I would never get through to my mother. Oh, I had a faint hope. But when she never remembered anything as I did, denied any awareness of my hatred of my father, thought I merely "didn't get along with" him, any belief in any kind of relationship with her was sheer fantasy. My head knew, perhaps my heart stayed silently wistful. Perhaps if I hadn't been injured and bereaved already, it wouldn't have unsettled me so.

I hadn't realized I was still holding on to this. Apparently I was. Huh.

Take a deep breath, let it out, and inhale more easily. Wedge the clay, make something else.




*eagerly, gleefully...

Boomerang

They do spat, but mostly they are comfortable with each other. They chased and wrestled last night. Eleanor won, but with a kind of gentleness. They share the tree and the bed, with intermittent friction. Zeppo gets carried away with his enthusiasm at times. He's young.

I think the thing about grief, if there was love, then some of that love splashes back along with the pain. If there was only anger, that boomerangs as well. Like slamming a door too hard, and it rebounds. With Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Walt, I felt the affection seeping back, the memories were rich and lovely. With my father, there was an empty boom followed by immense relief. Right now, all I'm getting is the anger and disdain. We were once bonded, when I was very small, that break is part of the yawning emptiness.

Fennel

Added fennel seeds to the cardamom already added to the Red Label and pu'er, tea mix. The tin was full of hersey kisses, a christmas gift from my MIL years ago, repurposed for tea. That nice flip lock makes a good seal.



Bad families throughout history in the form of tales. Lots of horror, treated matter-of-factly, with a dash of the magical. I had out my tarot cards, as they are a useful tool in suggesting different ways of thinking about problems. Useless as prophesy, of course.


Exhausted, down to the odd uncontrollable sob, no way out but through. It feels a bit like a cold, not in the symptoms, but knowing there is nothing to cure, have to let it run its course. Sobbing instead of coughing or sneezing. Took nothing to sleep last night, no benedryl nor melatonin, so it took me a long long time to settle and drift. Eleanor on me, and had to keep shifting as I turned. At one point walking over me to curl at my chest, as if to say "why aren't you asleep? here, lemme help." Eventually the darkness overwhelmed me, and no dreams adhered.


The night before, I was at a party, and someone had invited the ex. I kept avoiding him, but it took a long time for me to find my socks and shoes so I could leave. First time I've dreamt of that in many, many years. More an annoyance than a threat.


Neighbor dogs were having a party this morning, lots of happy play, with Rosa, Cora, Hawthorn and Spike tearing around in and out of Mike's sprinkler. All well behaved, as the humans chatted. I'd mentioned to Mike earlier why I was home, and he understood. As we watched the dogs, he said to me, "This is good for you." I said, yes, it really is.

Complex grief. It feels like a physical illness, my bodily responses involuntary and separated a bit from the emotions, which seem anomalous.


Remembering a critical incident with my father. I had the flu, mother went out for groceries, left with my father to 'care' for me. Fevered and immobile with fatigue and pain, I begged him for a glass of water. He ignored me, pointedly, refused. So I looked up the time, it was the year of Roots, 1977. I never got to see the end of it, because I was so sick I just slept through it. It was the Russian flu, and there is another tale. I was 14 years old. And very alone.

Anyway

Death is hereditary, we get it from our ancestors.

- Pterry.

My head is a mess, still projectile crying, intermittently. Got tomorrow off as well, since I'm pretty useless.

I think my father's death was more of a relief, because I genuinely hated him. He was clearly mentally ill. I never felt safe with him. It stunned me, but also freed me.

My mother, I am still angry with. But I never hated her. Her body shaming and pressure, contempt for the opinions of others that I secretly shared, and utter lack of interest in who I actually was, came out of what she considered love. Subtle, intermittent, broken, affectionate, scapegoating, gaslighting love. Not love. She didn't even like me, not the me I was. She loved the daughter she so wanted, that I wasn't. I hid it like the tattoos I lovingly now wear.

She preferred the soft lies of faith and god, sweet little girls, til death marriage. What should be instead of what really is. And I hit my head against that constantly. And backed away so as not to dislodge even that illusion of love, which was all I had.

Loving a child "no matter what" is like love 'anyway.' Nothing so insulting as, "I love you anyway." No. Love is because of everything you are, not despite it. Love 'no matter what you do' oddly winds up being 'unless you do what I don't approve of."

"If you live that kind of life, you are no daughter of mine." When I had my first BF, and she feared I might be having sex. So, she'd love me no matter what, unless I had sex outside of marriage. Not quite unconditional, really. I didn't actually have sex with him, although it was close. Too terrified of pregnancy, which was irrevocable and I would certainly have no family then. My mother thought unwed mothers ought to be stigmatized. Yeah, no matter what, PP is getting a donation in her name.

The insistence on arbs*, when I was a 36AAA. I still hide my chest to divert focus. The utter shame thrown at me for daring to menstruate before she was ready... no, at all. The covert sending away for a "kit" and berating me for not knowing what to do when I bled all over the place. The refusal to get me jeans, in the 70s, because only 'workmen' wore them. The dismissal of anything I liked or wanted or felt that didn't mesh with her taste and morality and preference. She bragged about how well we got along when I was a teen, compared to other mothers and daughters who fought. I didn't fight with her because I wasn't sure enough of her to challenge her. She didn't see it, but my compliance was a bad sign, that I was hiding from her, and disengaging. I figured her "unconditional" love didn't stretch to still loving me if I was openly angry with her.

I talked her into buying me (because I had no income, or allowance) a grey, pinwale corduroy, midi skirt. Completely modest, flattering, stylish, but not in her eyes appropriate for church, or visiting family, or anything else. I was harassed every time I dared to wear it. Too dark, or something. Who knows? Why did it matter so much to her that she shamed me?


I feel bad for my eldest brother, but I could never have been the caretaker daughter. Well, when I was in my 20s, I probably would have been, and wound up truly messed up. Like Queen Victoria's youngest daughters.


I remember when my mother mentioned that Dave would be their executor, and I thought, well, wouldn't that be ME? No, the son would do that. The eldest. The most capable one. Not me, silly. Now, I'm very glad of their misogyny. He moved her to Texas to live by him, after our father died seven years ago. I sent him a condolence card today. He also lost his eldest daughter a few years ago. I will treat him with all the gentleness and kindness I can summon. I am a professional, this is not a meager offering. I am at least one circle out.

The disowned one. The free child. The saved.

Maternal

Ode

DEATH waited while the old woman didn't take a deep breath.

"Now what?" she asked. "Where is my husband, or at least my family, most of them are dead long ago?"

AH, thought DEATH, for a moment, ONE OF THOSE.

WERE YOU EXPECTING TO BE MET? DEATH asked.

"Well, I don't know. I've never died before." She shuffled a bit, the clarity of death biting away her self deprecating reflex. "I suppose I hoped there would be someone, after all I waited for everyone else all those years."

They were standing in the silvery desert now, and DEATH handed the old woman a small seed. THIS WAS WAITING FOR YOU.

She took it dubiously, "What is this old thing?"

ALL THAT WAS LEFT WHEN YOUR HUSBAND DIED. HE NEVER GREW HIS SOUL, SO THAT WAS ALL HE WAS.

A sudden insight, and she asked, "A mustard seed?"

DEATH looked up as a woman crossed the desert toward them, a determined stride, she seemed young and strong and gently irritated.

"Mary, what are you doing there? C'mon, we're late."

The old woman had shrunk to the size of a small girl, with copper hair in a smooth, too short bob. She ran to the young woman, burying her face in her skirts.

"Sorry about her, she's my baby sister. I'll take care of her." And stretched out her spare hand to shake.

DEATH was slightly taken aback, even among the dead this was highly unusual. She grasped his bony hand, thanked him again, "Sorry" and the pair were gone.

PROBABLY CANADIAN, THAT SORRY ALWAYS GIVES IT AWAY.

DEATH never quite knew where they went after, not part of his job, only heard the stories from those who'd never been. Humans, and their imaginations, always intrigued him. Then he saw the seed, left in the sand, unregarded. It would never grow there.

He turned, and Binky waited. Always more to do.







With apologies to Pterry.

Brother

When the phone rang, Dylan checked the caller ID, as one does in these days of constant spam assault.

"It's your brother..."

I said, "It must be a death."

I missed picking up, called right back. I listened, I apologized, I thanked him. I asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" I was gentle and I cried with him a little. He checked that he had our right address, told me there would be papers from the lawyer about her estate. I stayed patient, quiet and accepting. Because his relationship with his mother does not need my bad memories. Ring theory of grief.



Taking some comfort in my ability to be kind in that moment. I've been preparing for it long enough. I didn't add to "thank you for calling" the thought "this time." I didn't add to "I'm glad you were there for her" the phrase, "because I sure as hell couldn't be" I didn't mention my conflicted reactions to being in the inheritance, not the time, there may never be a time. He told me she was at peace and out of pain at the end*. I did not contradict, in part because I don't know. In part because he isn't to know how nurses tell everyone that.

And that inheritance does bother at me. Depending on how much it is, and it really can't be very much, it's more a burden than a boon. (Although I know my father bought a lot of insurance when my eldest brother was young. My father did take care of money, to the extent he had any. Fiscal responsibility was ground into all of us.) I may send some of it back to my brothers. I also have to remember to keep enough to pay the tax at the end of the year. Give some to Planned Parenthood, again depending. A windfall is something I immediately want to deal with, shield myself from, not squander, but apportion out. I want to share it, too.

When Granny moved to an assisted living place, I was with Mom at her apartment as the aunts and cousins fought over the things. Nothing valuable, just ordinary stuff. But as Dylan says, the politics were so ugly because the stakes were so low. Mom pointed out that you really find out about people when you share an inheritance with them. The same true of divorce.

I may have to watch The Wrong Box again, and maybe The Quiet Man too.

“Being kind is a matter of altruism, being good is a matter of morality, and being nice is a matter of etiquette.”

*I had no idea just how comforting that phrase is to those left behind after a death. I mean, I said it often enough to patients' families, But, wow. A good death, ease after suffering, in a state of grace. It doesn't have to be factual to be true.

Waiting

Waiting at the vet. Neither liked getting in the bags, but settled down pretty well. Once in the exam room, they both explored, together. I think she kept him calm. Both took their weighing and temperature checks very well. Zeppo had a tick in his left ear, she took it out and irrigated it. Eleanor needs her teeth cleaned, an appointment has been made. Otherwise, all is well. They were very comfortable with each other, which is the best.

Zeppo is hiding now, but that's understandable. Eleanor took to the top of the dryer immediately, but is now wandering around looking for Zeppo. Hoping he'll appear shortly.


Addendum:

Got a call from my eldest brother. Our mother died yesterday. She was 94. I haven't spoken to her in over 7 years, and before that another gap of 8 years. She always said that you could love someone, but not necessarily like them. She didn't much like me. And I don't agree that love can be divorced from liking. This all feels very weird and unsettling, with a dollop of relief. I keep sobbing, and it's mixed with anger.

Summoning

Zeppo and Eleanor on the bed last night. She was relaxed, he behaved himself. Mostly. Later, when he got too rough with her tail, she walloped him good, once. He ran, she stayed on my feet. Not a fight, just a correction that took.



He really does have quite the vocal range, especially when he's singing for his supper. Which is to say, hungry at 0200. We're working on getting some of his stylings recorded.


This is sort of a meme, but with the questions meant as conversation starters, via Captain Awkward.


What five objects would someone use to summon you?

A cup of tea. A friendly cat. A contained fire. A watery shore, brook, river, lake or ocean. Home.


What would create an irresistible You-trap, like, if you walked by this place on the street you’d have to go in and check it out?

A rummage sale style antique shop with a steampunk vibe. Any import shop with lots of color and sparkle. Not that I'd necessarily buy anything, but I'd browse. An interactive art/science exhibition with no children around. An Open House for a place we'd never buy, but is architecturally interesting or historical.

What’s the best Halloween costume you ever saw/wore?

I went as a stage, with my favorite puppet holding the trick-or-treat bag. Cardboard box with crepe paper, covering me from the waist up, cut out front. Blacked my face, black pants and turtleneck. The curtains actually worked too.

Amazingly, I found an image of my puppet! This is her!




What was your first ever job?

Camp counselor in training. They had me lie about my age to the kids. Happily set up the camp, my first time sleeping outdoors, or being at camp. I quit two weeks after the kids arrived, completely overwhelmed. I was 17.

Did you have an imaginary friend when you were a kid?

Not a specific one, but all my dolls and stuffed animals had strong personalities. I sometimes talked with an imaginary sister.


What’s a word that you knew what it meant but never knew how to pronounce?

Oh, so many. The curse of the reader. Once I find one, I work really hard to learn the accepted pronunciation.


If the universe could give you back one lost item, what would it be?

The Carmina Burana album by some French group, played on period instruments from the original music, not the Carl Orff version at all. Very raw and lively and lost to me forever. Part of the ransom for my life.

When you were little what did you want to be when you grew up?

Whatever I could see women doing on tv. So, actor. Doctor. Pilot. Stripper. Not teacher or lawyer though.



This is a scheduled personal holiday, just the one mental health day. Taking the cats to the vet for well-checks. Not looking forward to wrangling them into carriers, could get tricky. Zeppo hard to catch, although he doesn't seem to mind actually being held. Eleanor catchable if treats are on offer, but she still does not like being held. I may put the harness on her earlier. It seems to slow her down for purely psychological reasons.

Moth

I've been delaying writing because I didn't have any photos. The cats have moved too fast for me, or I've been pinned down without a camera. This morning, Eleanor came up and kneaded my abdomen, then got a good head scritch. Dylan tried to keep Zeppo from bothering her, which worked for a few minutes. He jumps up, gets too excited, queries our lumpishness and urges us to come chase, then the exasperation as he just hares off to chase ALL BY HIMSELF FINE.


Yesterday, he was bugging her, and she rolled over and swatted at him in the laziest imaginable manner. Half hearted bop. He takes it without rancor, and tries again later. He is gaining confidence, slowly, incrementally. He is finding his boldness.

Only one mystery movie friend came last night, which is fine, he's good company. And Zeppo ran through a few times, his curiosity continues to slowly erode his skittishness. Then flopped down on a nearby rug and sang. Chris amused by the range of sounds coming from a cat. Eleanor sat behind his head on the sofa, quietly sniffing his hair. We look forward to a time when Zeppo becomes comfortable, and the obvious desire for affection becomes common normal behaviour for him, no matter who is here.


He adores the laser light. He even does what Moby used to, sees it in our hands, then looks down in front of him before we even turn it on, looking for the red bug. BEST GAME EVAH! Intense chasing ensues. Eleanor still seems to think, "it's a red light, why are you so excited, it's not like it's a MOUZE"

In tightening up the cat tree screws, we found a small infestation of moths. Much cleaning followed. Ugh. But it seemed contained. Old toys were discarded, the washable ones cleaned. The old wooly mice were much decayed.

We are getting both cats into the vet for well-cat checks this week. And to check Eleanor's tooth. Not the mobile house call vet who came to take care of car-averse Moby. His office is a considerable drive. Got a recommend for a neighborhood clinic, walked over there yesterday, and made appointments. A recommend and a nice vibe, and a very secure office cat.

It's not been an exceptionally hot summer, very few days over 100˚F. Despite a wet spring, it's been pretty dry though. We're under a red flag today, thusly...

...RED FLAG WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FROM 11 AM THIS MORNING TO
10 PM MDT THIS EVENING FOR WIND AND LOW RELATIVE HUMIDITY FOR
FIRE WEATHER ZONES 478...479...480 AND 481...

* AFFECTED AREA...Fire Weather Zone 478 Salt Lake Desert...Fire
Weather Zone 479 Wasatch Mountains...Fire Weather Zone 480
Uinta Mountains and Fire Weather Zone 481 Western Ashley
National Forest.

* WINDS...West 15 to 25 mph with gusts up to 40 mph.

* RELATIVE HUMIDITY...As low as 11 percent.

* IMPACTS...Any fires that develop will have the potential for
rapid growth. Outdoor burning is not recommended.

So, I watered as a preventative measure.

Perhaps more later.

$1 worth of sparklies from the rarely seen Sunday Yard Sale. I'm having way too much fun with this.

Fuzz

Tending to their post migraine human.

Intimacy

Half awake last night, I felt a cat between us, reached down expecting Eleanor's silky fur, and felt Zeppo's satin. He eased under my hand, purred deeply, rolled to his side, put his chin over my elbow, then nestled his nose into my elbow-pit. And fell deeply asleep, little twitches. I stayed as still as possible, and held him gently.

Eventually, he woke up and trundled off. And today will not approach me. That's fine, we have time.

Work was.. work I'm tired and glad of my Wednesdays off.

Our friends' wedding is coming up, and I'm invited to the shower. Which gives me heebiejeebies. I hate showers, wedding or baby, far worse than just parties. It's a long drive for me, especially to do alone. I like her a lot, and I don't want to be cranky. And I do not want to go. The family wedding shower thrown for me 35 years ago was so awful and awkward it still makes me shudder. I don't think I can go with a clear heart. No, I know I can't. RSVPing nope. We will gladly attend the reception. Well, calmly at least. We thought we were done with weddings, but exceptions must be made occasionally. I do not like weddings.

Grad

Got a message from a friend from grade school/jr. high. We've been in touch since the 20th reunion. I didn't go back in person, but people were reaching out to each other. We've stayed in touch, intermittently via email. She's always been a good egg, I don't know if I've ever been as good a friend to her. We were not in the same classes in high school, so we drifted then. She was the one to tell me my HS bully, one of them, wanted to apologize. I'd honestly forgotten, chalked it up to bully's bad homelife, left it all behind. Still, it was good to hear.

The 40th post graduation year is next year, and the organizing has begun. I won't be going, but I want to know how they're doing. The obituary list is disturbing. About 1/10th of my graduating class is dead.

I knew about my (completely unrequited) crush's cancer death not long after graduation. And the friend who became a homicide detective, murdered while investigating Detroit gangs. Two friends, who died sometime later I had not heard about. We aren't that old that so many should have died of natural causes.

And then there is the 'joke-boyfriend.'

I think it was 8th grade, and one guy who never spoke to me before, and I had no interest in, laid it on thick one Friday. "Be my girlfriend! C'mon, we can go steady!" All day long. I blanked him, ignored it all as irrelevant teasing. Didn't deign to answer at all, with so much as a word or a look. Over the weekend, I began to wonder if, well, maybe he meant it. Irrational, but it soothed my loneliness. On Monday, I watched for him, willing to give it a go, why not. But he was back to ignoring me. My first impression, that it was a joke, or a dare, had been right. Flirt with the class goat, the odd, awkward, swot, crybaby. Even the smarmy smoker of my class wouldn't want me. My heart hardened. At least he didn't keep up the joke. And I trusted my gut had told me right, and I trusted it more.

Mostly because it was only one day, and my reaction was effective, I didn't hold it against him. Valuable lesson, too. Never trust the effusive salesmen, give them nothing to grasp.

I hope he got it out of his system and became a good human.

Filo

The usual Saturday evening gathering, Eleanor very sociable. Zeppo ran through, his curiosity got the better of his skittishness momentarily. I have confidence he will gradually join her in walking all over the friends too.

He patted Dylan's face this morning, for food or affection, maybe both. He came to me later for head rubs. He reaches out a paw to pull my hand into this face and chest to get scritched. When he starts getting too excited and the back paws come up or he nibbles at my hand, I gently stop and pull away. It's not meant to injure, more play. He's already better about letting go.

"Oh. Yeah, sorry 'bout that." He stops, rubs his face on my knuckles, all is well. He notches his chin over my wrist, and rests. He's a very smart cat. With a serpentine tail. Very squirmy, on high alert, ready to bolt always. Each day, a little more at ease, with us, with food, with Eleanor. He clearly wants affection, but needs to feel safe.

We must be reliable. Thin layers of experience. Decoupaged trust. Filo dough.

Even

Had friends over last night, last minute, based on my getting off work at a reasonable hour and in a decent state of mind, which happened (marginally) and we ordered food (bike) delivered. (Even Stevens, so much yum.) I took a shower when I got home. They showed up, we chatted amiably, ate well, which left us all in a better state of mind. Eleanor came out for attention, Zeppo stayed hidden, no matter.

We went to see an EAP counselor, concerning our grief over Moby, which was mostly ok, but she mentioned it being like losing a child. And no. No it's not. Moby was his own cat, not a child. He was a cat, not a human, at the end of his lifespan, and interspecies friendships are not parent/child relationships. We corrected her, gently, that we did not feel that way, we never wanted a child, did not think of him as a child, but that did not make our attachment less, only different. She accepted this, it was a common enough response. But it's wrong, at least for us. We were not dealing well this week, intermittently. And we think Eleanor wasn't either, intermittently, intolerant of Zeppo's insistent approaches on Thursday.

Losing a child is devastation, too early, their own body's offspring destroyed.

Losing a cat is losing a close friend, for whom one is responsible, at the end of their normal lifespan, and in our case, chosing the time, hoping we did it at the right time, not waiting too late for our own selfish reasons. And missing his presence every moment. And guessing that Eleanor is feeling the loss as well, trying to help her, while not knowing with any certainty what she feels or how to help.

Work has been trying, and I long for retirement. Most of the people I work with are amazing professionals. I have to focus on that. Not on the one individual who exposes her own sins by accusing everyone else of them. Yeah, that's happening, and it sucks.

Cuddle

Welp. There you go then.

Wasn’t for long. Eleanor slightly aghast, endured a while, then sat behind me. Still.

Papageno

Finally got Eleanor outside. She was trying to eat the dried cat-grass from last week, so I figured she needed a salad and time out among the thyme and catnip. She enjoyed it greatly, but is never eager to get the harness on. Took a bit of coaxing, until she finally decided, "yeah, that'd be nice" and laid on her side, let me put it on her. Didn't even mind my Mike & Spike coming to visit. Even when cat Sebastian wandered over (not too close) she was sanguine and relaxed. To the point that she did not want to come back in. I think she likes some time away from the adoration by Zeppo. He wants to be close to her ALL THE TIME! Follows her around. Reaches out to her on the bed, as she lays on me to be cuddled. Interrupts her eating, but she isn't starving, and we'll aways put more food out for her. She trusts there will be food.

The last two mornings, both were on me on the bed in the morning. Cat Alarm Clocks are effective, but not reliable. This morning it didn't matter, as I just dozed, Eleanor on my chest, Zeppo up by Dylan's pillow - the occasional purrmewingtones*. Yesterday, starting at about 0500, Zeppo up for a pet, then down. Eleanor on my chest, then down. Eleanor again, Zeppo got pushy, Eleanor hissing, both shoved off by me because No Fighting On The Bed is the Rule. Then Eleanor on my chest as the first chime went off so she knows she has ten minutes or so for a cuddle. Zeppo up, rubbing his face on my restraining elbow, then up around my head. He lays beside me and reaches out a paw to Eleanor, who would prefer to be left in peace to be scritched. Zeppo has been waking up Dylan by getting up over his head on the pillow.


Continuing to clear the odds and ends, which always takes the most time. Apparently shoving piles from one corner of the table to the other repeatedly doesn't actually make anything better.

Both of us tetchy and cranky, irritated by stuff we would normally take in stride. We are coping, but still grieving. Zeppo keeping us from moping. Eleanor stops by my chair to be petted, tail up, waiting for me to notice her. We try to tend to each other, sometimes we miss. Zeppo distracts us, keeps us laughing. But all three of us grieve.




Got a handful of midget tomatoes, from plants that again just volunteered. There will be more. The bell peppers were ripening, so we ate the only two, and very small but tasty peppers in our salad. Had a few tiny raspberries that tasted of joy. The fennel smells wonderful, as does the bergamot. Blackberries forming in front, just a few, but I hope for next year. No visible pumpkins, but the vines are impressive.





*He does a prrrmrrrrpohpohpohpoh that sounds like the Papageno/Papagena duet from Magic Flute. I sometimes call him Papageno, bird catcher, when he does this little aria bit. He seems to respond to it. So, he is Zeppo Papageno, which has a nice musical rhythm to it.

Corn

Continued cleaning
We have enough cholula.
Why so much corn starch?


Did some research, I'll put it on the garden.

Not

Black cat on the couch
Stretched out long, so different
Not Moby. Himself.

Zeppo is his own cat, and only the color of fur is the same. The fur is different, sleek satin instead of a double coated velvet. Long thin tail, rather than a thick short appendage. A slim triangular head instead of an elegant rhomboid. A rounded center instead of a stocky musculature. It has been a month. He finds his own place here, and we stand back to watch and adore.

I woke thinking of his time in a small cage, however kindly meant, still a jail. He needs time to exercise and become nourished, to find his own proper shape. He hesitates jumping up to the tree, lacking a youthful bounce. He needs time, patience, trust. I know about needing time to trust. Eleanor seems to as well. As he rubs up against her, his tail in her face, she does the feline version of rolling her eyes, but tolerates. She bops him gently when he's being annoying. But it's not mean, not personal, just correction.

Eleanor sat on my chest this morning, as Zeppo hopped up, purring madly, wanting attention too. She settled in, I put out a hand to him, half asleep, pressed him down to allow Eleanor her time. Cat-alarm clock. Not to be relied upon, but effective.

Eleanor plays more, now. Finds ping pong balls, they bat it between them, not a scorable game, but a game. There is an ease between them that delights us. They share their space well. I hope, once it gets cold, we will find them cuddled together.

These things cannot be rushed.

Parallel

Eating in parallel. They still get in each other's way of food sometimes. Well, Zeppo gets in Eleanor's way, and wants to eat out of her dish while she's eating out of it, which annoys her immensely. Mostly, they manage. For Treat Time™ I pick Eleanor up along with the treats and put both on the sideboard, which she also isn't fond of, but tolerates because: treats. Zeppo's treats distract him, as long as he is not being approached.

Cats. Who can figger 'em?





My yardsale Brown Betty has a new chip in the spout. Not sure how, well, ok, I'm not quite adroit with my right hand yet, and which specific time, so to be clear, not sure WHEN... Still pours fine. I did notice a repair on the lid, and that wasn't me. No matter, adds to her charm.

Dylan is nearly done cataloging our books, the shelves mostly sorted. I cleaned them, polished up the glass. There was some dusty-possibly at some point damp at the back of the north side. Evidence of moths in my salvaged from work papertowels. Going to get some camphor, since mothballs can be toxic, and we don't need the place to smell of the army.



This isn't all of them, he has music books on shelves in the Music Room. And stray piles around the bed, of course.



Zeppo loves this as his scratching spot, good thing I did such a crappy job putting it up. And the rolls of this grass wallpaper came cheap at a yardsale. Better this than the upholstered furniture.



He likes a good face, chin, chest scritch, and gives warning that he's getting too excited and is about to rabbitkick. A good cat, and obviously intelligent.




Eleanor on alert. She waited until the middle of the night to get her cuddle on my chest. And just as I was about to get up this morning.



Treats are for hairball control, extra taurine supplement, dental.

Beware Survivor Bias.


Postcards sent. If you still want one, and are not sure I have your realaddress, let me know. I have a few more postcards.

Eddy

Leaf in an eddy,
Bank, stream, bank, stream, all motion
No movement, not still.

Got postcards, which are half addressed, half written. None ready to send. Planned to polish them off yesterday, did nothing instead. This is part of why I don't write letters, by the time I get everything together to actually post one, I want to re-write it so that it's current.

Called off work for Friday, and I'm relieved.

Détente

Both love the top of the tree. Eleanor is learning to assert her priority. Zeppo learning that the camera is not a threat. It's a bit iffy at this point. The do get on, doesn't mean there aren't irritations and negotiations. She's returning to cuddle on me at night more, but it's not all night. Which is good, because it means she's chasing around with Zeppo. She leaned against the sole of my foot, then Zeppo came in singing for her to come play, after a moment, she did. Everything changes.

We continue to grieve, and laugh and cope.


i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


E E Cummings.

Library

Ok, so we have a library. But it's a mess, and always has been. When we moved in, the books got shoved on shelves, along with everything else, including games and CDs. We knew eventually we would organize it, the seven year delay not as bad as it could have been. Dylan got some cataloguing software, and the work has begun.

I think we hesitated to bother Moby in his age and illness. Now that we aren't bothering him, and my hand is nearly healed, it feels like the right time. I knew, but didn't really know, how much this would engage Dylan. We have a project. And we haven't moved house in seven plus years, so it was time.


A total mess for a week or so. Eventually, we will also get to the workshop. And a yardsale.


Sorting through, putting in energy to hold back the chaos.



The chaos is inevitable. Order is not permanent. Nor should it be. Like perfection, too much means death. All our component atoms in number order... not conducive to life. Too much disorder, put through a randomizer like a blender, also not conducive to life.

The messy middle way of this wabi sabi life.




"I'm having yours."

"O... ok..."






Note: may have been the spilled catnip I was drying, not food. Not entirely sure. Don't know if Zeppo likes the 'nip or not. I suspect he may be a non-reactor, like Moby.

Vents

They chased around madly this morning, after a good 0530 breakfast. There has been no hissing, no evidence that anyone is getting beaten on or taking offense, just scuffling and running and thumping about. Now, napping.

Tried to clean out the dryer vent, and either there is nothing much in there, or we didn't get the brush far enough. Found the brush on the cable, will try again another day. Cleaned off the moisture sensors (didn't even know we had them, but guess what) although they didn't look bad.


Picked up this rather handsome, and remarkably comfortable, not to mention sturdy, chair. Oiled the leather and wood, cleaned it well. Let it soak in the oil, and it should buff up nicely. Estate sales, I'm tellin' ya.

Stealth

This was one of Moby's favorite spots, and his original scratching device. I cleared away the runner and buckwheat pillow, cleaned and moved.




I think my making a photo worries him a bit. I think a lot of things worry him these days, but hopefully less and less.

Zeppo sings to the ghosts. He's stealthy as well as able to bilocate.

Towels

My first full time job, my first chance to escape my father, I moved to Kalkaska Michigan. I was intensely lonely, without the ability to cope. The dreadful pull of my parents' support, with attendant abuse, left me torn and empty. The afternoon shift in a small town where I knew no one, and lacked the ability to make friends, ground away my resolve to live alone.

A young woman, and I don't remember how I met her, a pharmacy student, took me under her wing. Brought me along to family dinners, and to their cottage by Starvation Lake. I remember going canoeing with her at dusk, under fog, watching the bats swoop around us, catching their dinner.

Her family used beach towels for everything, delighting me with the color and generosity of enough terrycloth. I don't remember any of their names. But their kindness lives with me after... well, nearly forty years now. In my neediness, my callow youth, it never occurred to me that one day, I would want to tell them how much they meant to me.

The only good gift of the first wedding, were large, ugly brown striped, but absorbent bath towels. So, when I escaped that relationship, I bought beach towels for myself. In better colors. I've done so ever since.

In my parents' house, the towels were small, pale and thin. The sheets old and pilled. The love scarce and synthetic.

In our home, the towels are bright and thick and large - beach towels. The cats are beloved. The sheets smooth, the pyjamas knit and soft.



Stay hoopie, froods.