death is in the details

We buried Jack this afternoon,
down where the trilliums used to grow.
My daugter's boyfriend came over
and went out with D. and they dug a huge hole
in the bucketing rain.
Following our vet visit Thursday evening,
Jack was put in some plastic,
and placed in caskety-looking cardboard box.
We had no protected place to keep him -
so we left him in my car where he was safe
from other animals and protected from the rain.
This morning, while the guys did their digging,
I went to a meeting and things being what they were -
Jack came along.
Word had preceeded me, so sympathy was rampant
(addicts are crazy for that unconditional love).
Everyone was talking, the room was like a hen house
and one woman said to me, "Don't worry dear.
Jack hasn't left you - in fact he's with you now."
Her eyes almost flapped clear out of her head
when I replied, "I know! He's right outside -
in the back of my car."
Once I got back home, D. and I milled around for a while,
unable to go out and get it done, but unwilling to commit
to doing anything else. Finally, we both stood, put on our coats
and headed out to take Jack to his final place of rest.
After hideous rain the skies had almost cleared, and there was
something close to sunlight shining through the trees.
Neither of could bear to just bury him in a box -
so I found an old red cotton sheet, and we laid him on that.
D. wrapped a blessing cord around Jack's neck,
tucked a prayer card under his chest -
then we lowered him down and let the red cloth cover him.
We shoveled for a long while in total silence,
then I asked if we could burn that box
so I didn't have to see it again.
D. put it in the hole, coaxed it to burn -
and we watched until dozens of little ashen hands
drifted up into the air and moved slowly away.
We filled the rest of the hole, stood for a moment,
and left Jack out there, where he so loved to be.
Beyond bringing him home, we had made no plans -
which I suppose allowed things to unfold as they did.
The entire experience was, and will remain,
a collection of incredibly pure moments:
D. (who had never had a dog before Jack),
kneeling in the mud to wrap that cord around his neck.
Moss-covered branches soaked with rain,
touched by an unexpected finger of sun.
And Jack, curled into his usual C of sleep -
still velvet,
still dog-love,
still.

Thanks to all you bloggers
for your kind words and sympathy.
I am bereft, but feel better
and I know that this is true:
I loved loving him and I am so sorry to see him go -
which is a fine epitaph
for a friend.

Farewell to the god of frolic

No more sweet noodling
from the velveteen muzzle,
no more the ears made of silk.
Gone the shivery joy of
that full-body welcome;
gone too
those dark caramel eyes.

Goodbye,
you killer of weeds extraordinaire,
you mouse hunting, grape loving
peanut butter freak.
No other living thing
will ever love me
as simply and wholly
as you did.
I will miss you in this world
More than I can say.

I wonder – did you hear,
just at the moment
your body came to rest?
Every other dog in the place began to howl...
Urging you on,
feeling you go;
and then
you
were.

Jack - 1/1999 - 1/2006

Jack's back!

He's restricted to the leash for the next three days,
and on a special diet for a week,
but other than that - he is much better.
There seems to be no concensus on his ultimate diagnosis:
gastoenteritis/food poisoning? some weird infection?
One would think that $600.00 later,
there would be SOME sort of answer
but I'll try to just be grateful he doesn't
have anything major wrong with him
and try to leave it at that.
(Although I must admit, I started to do a slow burn regarding
the bill, but I realize how futile that is...so...nuff said.)
Jack was ecstatic to see me and is very happy to be home.
And I am happy to have him here.

right here, right now

"I'm at an age where I should get into shape,
but it's probably not going to happen.
Quite frankly, I'm so lazy
I'd drive to my bathroom if I could."

-Michele Balan



No news on Jack.
Is this good
or bad?

Hoping for the best

My dog is in the hospital.
There are some details, like: lowered platelet counts,
elevated white-cell counts and body-core temperature
irregularities - but noone seems to know exactly what
the trouble really is.
So for now, poor Jack is over there at the veterinary place,
with IV lines and medications and stranger-dogs
who are also sick and far away from their homes.
I am hoping he will be okay, and that we will not
be having that awful pet discussion - the one that
starts with money and ends with no.
I am hoping for the best.
In the meantime, I am hanging on to all the little things,
the everyday stuff that makes life such a fabulous ride.
A handmade postcard from my good friend C.
Ray LaMontagne singing on Austin City Limits,
right when I needed him most.
The shocking green fingers of Lucifer Crocosmia
reaching out of the ground, pointing toward spring
in spite of this endless rain.
My daughter's profile - mostly obscured by her long, red hair -
as she says out loud, "You are a good mother, Mom."
The big round cookie with pale pink frosting
that I ate this morning as I drove around the sound.
Electric violins.
A bowl of my own green chili.
Donald Sutherland in Klute, as he lies down on the floor
and cradles Jane Fonda so gently in his arms.
The Food Network.
Slippers.
My library card.
And the guy who sat in front of me at the meeting I went to tonight:
with his big red coat and his clean white shoes
and the two faded tears tattooed right beside his left eye.
He had on a ball cap, jammed tough on his head, and he sat all
squared and tight; maintaining, listening hard.
But all the while, back where he couldn't see,
downy bits of hair were tufting out below his cap;
feathery bits of vulnerability foiling every one
of his efforts to keep that under wraps.
And for just a moment, I could see into his house,
where he was soft, and afraid, and hoping for the best.

bs

The landscape of repression

I saw Brokeback Mountain a few nights ago
and it occurred to me that, with this movie,
Ang Lee may have totally mastered
the landscape of repression.
His eye for the slightest nuance, and his
willingness to give silence time to speak
create a portrait of longing and regret so
fiercely profound I am unable to write any
sort of rational 'review'.
I LOVED this movie.
This movie broke my heart.
And I think it deserves an honored place
among the classic movies about star-crossed love.
I have been pondering Ang Lee's other films
and I find that repression seems to be a
central theme in each of them.
The father in Eat, Drink, Man, Woman
is unable to express his love for his daughters,
and they cannot be honest about themselves with him.
The Wedding Banquet is based entirely on a sham wedding
between a man who cannot tell his parents he is gay
and a woman who must marry or dhe will be deported.
The Ice Storm - which illustrates so
well the cool, surface perfection of the seventies,
gives us a close-up look at what is really
boiling just below that surface.
Sense and Sensibility takes place in an age
when repression was the norm - and it too is completely
stuffed with characters who must continually hide who
they are and what they truly feel.
I did not see Hulk - but I read enough comics to know
that The Incredible Hulk basically defines what can happen when
tragedy creates a rage one must try to repress, but cannot.
Even Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is about repression;
the martial arts master hides his love, the women hide their
ability to fight, everyone is a prisoner in some way or other...
I have not seen Ride With The Devil yet - but I think I will have to
in order to completely develop my theory.

Woah - I had not intended to go on so long about this,
but it's intruguing to me. I wonder how Ang Lee came to have
such insights into the subject.

I had intended to complain (yet again) about the weather,
but I'm too tired. And I am feeling a little touchy about
blogging since I heard some scathing thing on tv about
all the "pathetic hacks on the internet, writing trite crap
no one really ever wants to read..."

However, speaking of trite crap -
the folks on Invasion are making me crazy!
I want a solid hour of show, with a few
more revelations and a lot fewer commercials.
I am thinking I need to save for a Tivo so I
can do more quality viewing in less time -
and never have to see another Oak Barn or
Leptoprin commercial.


bs

From Snow globes to Golden Globes

Today saw the end of an era...
I finally took down my Christmas tree!
I had vaguely entertained the idea of a summer
pull date, but the thing was really beginning
to go bald.
To tell the truth, it was
starting to depress me -
sitting there all dark and unloved...
like the Anti Christmas himself
just hanging out in my living room.
With gallons of rain pouring from the sky
pretty much round the clock these days,
one must take care not to push the envelope
of grimness too far.

Because I worked so hard,
I gave myself a full lounge pass for the evening -
which I spent lying on the couch
under my insanely plush micro-fleece blankie,
watching the Golden Globes.
I only saw a smidge of the pre-show stuff,
which I realized was a blessing when I heard
some woman from Inside Edition pose this question
to the cast of Will and Grace:
"Sooooo - do you think that your show
paved the way for a movie like Brokeback Mountain?"
Wha?
The show itself wasn't bad - the opening song was pretty
frightening, but maybe the extra cash went into the open bar.
Kudos to the star of Memoirs of a Geisha - she looked like
a delicate, beautiful flower.
George Clooney wins for most dapper man,
and Geena Davis for showing the most skin
that looks the most like cream.
On the flip side -
I think that Shirley MacLaine needs to get a new wig,
and that somebody needs to ride herd on that dairy farm
Mariah Carey hauls out at every awards show.
I was thrilled that Phillip Seymour Hoffman won, but
a little sad his date had to show up in a Glad trash bag.
And I spent a fair amount of time really wanting to give
Jamie Foxx a serious ego reduction procedure.

Now - the party is over, and I am absolutely exhausted
from my long and difficult day.
Trash tv begins in earnest tomorrow
when I watch the auditions for American Idol,
and continues on Wednesday when I go slumming
with the freaks on Invasion.


Please
Please
someone make the rain STOP.

bs

Farewell, Shelley Winters.

Thanks for A Patch of Blue and A Place in the Sun.

R.I.P

friggatriskaidekaphobia...

Word of the Day

Past disasters linked to the number 13 hardly help triskaidekaphobics overcome their affliction. The most famous is the Apollo 13 mission: it was launched on April 11, 1970 (the sum of 4, 11 and 70 equals 85 - which when added together comes to 13), from Pad 39 (three times 13) at 13:13 local time, and was struck by an explosion on April 13.
I would add the disaster of 175 (which adds up to 13!) Friday the 13th movies,
each one progressively lamer than its predecessor.

I admit it - I am superstitious.
No shoes on the table, no hats on the bed.
Spilled salt? Over the left shoulder at once.
And walking under ladders - absolutely not.
Has observing these ancient dictates brought me fortune?
Whadda you think?
But - who knows what might have happened
had I thrown caution to the wind?

Perhaps today is the day to live contrary to dogma.
Maybe I will stuff my shoes with salt
and put them all on the table, then bind a black cat
to my dead father's hat and toss them both on my bed.
Lunch time might find me standing beneath a ladder,
reading Aleister Crowley's Book of Lies....
Or
perhaps not.

Stay tuned - the day is young and I am longing for
something to lift me out of the gloom of 40 days of rain.

Pronunciation: 'spach-(&-)l&

Heads up, blogoons! Wherever you are, I hope it's dryer than where I am.
Perhaps it is the weather, or because I am laboring under the
lingering effects of some sort of precursor to the bird flu, but
somehow I neglected to tell you all something terribly important.
The news: 2006 is the year of the spatula.
How do I know this?
Because I recieved no less than 8 of them for Christmas.
Apparently I sent a newsletter out to everyone I ever met
mentioning my spatu-lack...and now I am swimming in them.
While we're on the subject of rubber, I have been reading
bits of a book about Michael Jackson, and apparently he
was in the habit of calling every one of his little boy
pals the same nickname...Rubba. Creeeeeepy, or what?
I still think he ought to be in jail - although, when you
consider what his life is like, perhaps he's already there.
The ways in which our lives can hold us prisoner have been
heavy on my mind the past few days - thoughts most likely
stirred up by a Frontline series I just watched.
'Country Boys' follows 2 Arkansas boys as they struggle
to make it through an alternative high school, and their
stories are both heart-rending and remarkably uplifting.
It is out on DVD, and I can't recommend it highly enough.

For those of you who helped celebrate my victory over
AssHat from BastardTown, there is an epilogue.
I called him back, but he was on vacation and I left a message.
About a week later, I was on the phone with my younger sister
having a very emotional discussion about our older sister and
her continuing slide into end-stage alcoholism. My phone has an
annoying habit of suddenly clicking off, and it does so at random.
If I click it back on right away, I can continue my coversation
pretty much without interruption - which is usually what happens.
So, on this day, when my phone clicked off just as I was
in the middle of saying something like, "she desperately needs
in-patient care and she needs to..." I just clicked it back on
and continued: "...drinking a half-gallon of vodka a day
and weighing under 100 pounds can only end one way and..."
But, there was a strange breathing sound coming from
my sister's end of the line...and then this: "Uh, hello?
Ummm, this is David from WhereHouse Music...."

And that, my friends, is how victory is whittled down to size.

bs

Man on main street

Man in flared, hip-length,
blonde rabbit-fur coat
on Main Street.
In high-heeled boots.
Pulling a bright blue suitcase on wheels.
Now that you don't see every day.

I am weary of too much rain,
listening to Ryan Adams "Night Birds"
and struggling to work.
The box I am painting stinks;
each time I sand it, the thing out-gasses
a stink like burning beef tallow with a hint
of formaldehyde. Yum.

Woah - the wind just brought down a big alder -
time to get offline and shut down the computer
before the power goes out.

18

RIP 2005

Good bye 2005,
year of bewilderment,
year of distress.
So long,
year of the relentless headache,
the cat-eating coyotes,
and the totally senseless
murder of Al.
Good riddance to August and the cruelty of youth,
to the harshness of change and the long days that followed...
to the year of the emergency room,
the critical care unit, the nursing home and the rehab joint.
Au revoir, beloved 1945 Westinghouse Commander, Bindi my love,
and Grandmother's living room rug.
Farewell Anne Bancroft, Johnny Carson, Richard Pryor,
John Fowles, Arthur Miller, Rosa Parks and Eugene McCarthy.
Farewell too, 26 years of constant mothering, and any
possibility of doing that again.
Go away George Bush, Tom DeLay, Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove,
Michael Brown, Paris Hilton, Michael Jackson,
Brad and Jennifer, Brad and Angelina, Jennifer and Angelina...

I will not miss you 2005,
year of pain and anger,
year of Katrina, the tsunami and Turkey,
year of accepting what is ultimately unacceptable.
I am glad that you are through.

And yet...
simply as a measure of time,
you offered much:
365 days of people and places and tasting
and touching, of words and thoughts and deeds.
Millions of chances to begin anew, to start again,
to rethink, to repay, to repair.
Time
for eyes to open
mouths to close
sorrow to diminish
and joy to grow.

Or not.

Good luck, Godspeed
Sayonara,
adieu.

Bring it on
and make it good
2006.