“My Favorite Place” draft one, 10 Nov. 2009

[Started this in a creative writing workshop. Written in fice minutes. Modified it only for structure.]

My favorite place

Is cool like a refrigerator,

And as dry as a desert.

No damp, wool blanket would cover me,

And whispering brisk air carries

Excess, annoying heat away.

When cool enough, dry enough,

I can walk without my cane,

I can think with precision, clarity, and speed.

In my favorite place,

I am safe,

Needing not to justify

My needs, my methods, my limitations.

My favorite place is as comforting

As the embrace of soft arms,

“I Tire of the Needle,” draft two, 2 Sept. 2009

I tire of the needle,

and not because it hurts.

I tire of the needle,

and not because of cost.

I tire of the needle,

and not because I spurn routine.

I tire of the needle,

who greets me every day.

I tire of the needle,

whose point is not so present of that of other pricks.

It need not deliver a sugar high,

or keep my heart from stopping.

It need but only stop--not stop, but slow--

intrusion of the subtle and unseen.

I tire of the needle--

it’s daily reminder of uncertainty.

Pragmatism=Determination+Awareness-Confidence-Bliss

It is not sadness that leads me to this conclusion. I am not morose or gloomy. At times, my state, “Like to the lark at break of day arising / From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate” (too many syllables in first line—weird), but, like the lark, my state must return to earth. As “Crash” told “Nuke,” who wanted to just enjoy the “moment,” the moment’s over.

(My roommate recently finished the second draft of a short screenplay--a well-written one, but his first. The next day, he described his emotional state: spiking and plummeting, repeat. Yeah. I offered advice, based on my years of writing experience: get laid, or start working on the next script.)

Keep moving. Not because I’m running away, but because I don’t have the resources to survive in a stopping place. 

Awareness is the stylobate, determination the plinth of the pillar of Pragmatism. Confidence and bliss are the cloying children of Hope, cringing in a corner of Pandora ’s Box. Mixed metaphor aside, the latter do not belong with the former.

I want to write about the loss of a “friend,” one I had known for 15 years. Over time, he became my son’s “friend,” and everyone who met him adored him. In 1994, though, his need for a friend was so great we made him a part of lives.

We--I and the woman I came to love, would marry, and who would divorce me—decided to adopt a cat. I had a cat. She had a cat. We would have a cat.

At the Manhattan, Kansas shelter, all but one caged cat clamored for attention. This Maine Coon, with jet-black hair shot through with golden streaks, sat against the cage door looking sidelong at us. I see him, now, reminding me of the punch-line of my favorite Jewish grandmother joke, the one about the number needed to insert an incandescent lamp. “None. I’ll just sit here in the dark. You go on with your lives. You’re young. I’m old. I’ll die soon. Go. Go.”

We went and with him in our arms. “A.J.” we named him (Augustus John, the English painter, for no reason but his was the first name to come to mind). He acted as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

Unassuming, quiet, undemanding. One night, I closed the bedroom window. The next morning, we found our new friend trapped between the window and the screen. He never complained.

We watched this Maine Coon scoop food into his paw and lift it to his mouth. He tried to eat shadows. He came for attention but never cried for it.

Changes upset him, whether it was my lover’s intense spring cleaning, or our moving preparations. We had learned he had been caught in a tuna trap. His docility indicated he had been someone’s pet and, perhaps, abandoned. Manhattan--college town—irresponsible, selfish students. Yeah, abandoned. We calmed and comforted him without hesitation.

During the divorce process (2001 to 2002), my soon-to-be ex-wife offered to find homes for the cats--hers and ours. I declined her offer. Our “friends” and our son didn’t deserve such loss.

As my struggles (“managing” my MS, living on my own, trying to finish a doctorate) worsened, I briefly considered getting rid of the cats. My son, who had recently begun talking, said something about “my cats.” No way would I disrupt this relationship. No way in hell.

The recent move to Roeland Park proved difficult for him. We were in an apartment that recently housed four people, two big dogs, two cats, and a ferret. The persistent odors I could only tolerate must have driven A.J. nuts! He often shat on the carpet. He yowled for no reason we could discern. What did he think? “Where are the dogs? What is that animal I can smell but not see?”

We moved again, to a renovated apartment--new carpets, “fresh” paint, and no animal odors. A.J. calmed, but . . . His age showed in his crooked gait, his weight loss, his dull, bodiless fur.

My son and I doted on A.J. Strokes, gentle words, and lap time. We talked about my son’s trip to Florida, and he gave voice to the possibility that A.J. might die while he is gone. Yeah.

My roommate called me at work, letting me know he’d found A.J. had died. Not a surprise. A.J. had been declining, sharply, during the past three days.

Okay, all right, he was just a cat. The pragmatic part of me knows this and will not share  my sudden tears. For, I will miss him. And, now, I need to tell my son our friend is gone--without being able to hold him as he cries.

My nine-year old son left for Florida, this past Saturday. I’d arranged with my roommate to take me to the airport (MCI), where we’d meet my son and his mother. Friday evening, after his mother picked up Preston, I crashed, sleeping for 13 hours.

When I awoke, though, I discovered my body had shut down, leaving me with resources enough to get to the bathroom and the living room sofa, where I stretched out and used the TV to occupy a trapped mind. I didn’t get to the airport.

Perhaps not a surprise. I have compared myself to an inefficient rechargeable battery--not recharging fully, not recharging quickly. During the previous week-and-a-half, I provided Preston’s primary care, I moved to a new apartment, and I prepared for and started teaching two summer courses. Lots of physical activity, lots of heat and humidity exposure.

When I wake during the night, I'm experiencing tightening of my neck and back muscles. My first thoughts are about money. "How will I pay the [pick one] bill?", "Will I be evicted?" or, "What can I sell for gas money?"

Tuesday, I awoke at 3:30. Choosing action over apathy, I got dressed and went to the supermarket to buy catfood. I wrote a check, knowing it won't be processed until Friday, pay day. Having acted, I was able to return to sleep. But, geez . . .

Yes, I'm moving to be closer to work, and moving in with a friend in order to share expenses. How will I pay for the move, though? Will I be able to get to Sprink Break? Worry, worry, worry.

Yes, things will begin to improve for me, come May, but I need to get to May.

Thank you for letting me pour forth.
 

My friend, the wall,

Or any vertical surface, then,

Strong enough to support my head,

While my hands retrieve my shorts, my slacks,

My fingers shove in my shirt, close up my fly.

I have other friends,

Count my cane among them.

This four-footed friend can not help,

Though, when I need two hands.

My kitchen counter,

Like my friend, the wall, then,

Provides the edge I need--

My hands prepare my meals, and, then, wash my dishes.

I have other friends:

They let me lean against them,

When my legs, my heart, my hope

Can not, at times, sustain me.

Could I’ve ever stood alone, then?

Worry, if not fear, woke me before 3:00. I will be moving, around the end of May, from Lawrence, Kansas, to Roeland Park, Kansas. Moving, to another city for the first time in 15 years. Wow! Still, I awoke, afraid.

How will I pay for this? The chief reason for the move is to improve my financial situation, but I’ll need to find resources to do so.

How will I accomplish this task? Growing up an Air Force brat, I moved often, and was skilled at it. Now, I am unable to do much of the "heavy lifting," unable to lead, by example, the people who will help me.

I did get back to sleep after almost two hours. And, I will find answers to these questions, and this task will be accomplished.