Of the galaxies above
Through all the infinite reaches
With stars and constellations
Uniting as we do
As lovers; We are
Both starstuff with
Rent due
Next Tuesday.
This one has been stuck in my head for a few days. Had to get it out!
Poetry
Tail curl
Alyska and I have been talking, off and on, about dopting a new kitty. We sort of like the idea of finding a cat that respresents us as a couple.
Because we’re a little weird about our displays of affection.
Also: cats are amazing.
Kittens are easy to adopt, while people are much less likely to adopt adult cats, bonded-pair cats, senior cats, or disabled/special needs kitties.
In 2009, PetFinder completed a national survey of their pet populations. Near a quarter of shelters have special needs cats and these types of pets spent up to 4 times longer waiting to be adopted or fostered than other cats.
Alyska and I both believe firmly in adopting these less “desirable” cats for all the reasons you’d expect.
But really? I think, as disabled people ourselves, we grok what it means to help to give them as good a life as possible. Adaptation is key.
Alyska started searching and pretty quickly found a little kitty at the Oshkosh Area Humane Society with cerebellar hypoplasia (CH). We planned to go on the adoption fair circuit the following Saturday, with the final stop in Oshkosh.
We saw so many kitties, you guys. So many cats, including some ridiculous blorps in Oshkosh.
Look at these blorps:
Cerebellar Hypoplasia (CH) is believed to be caused when a small animal is exposed to an aggressive virus in utero. For cats, this is typically seen when pregnant cats are exposed to the panleukopenia virus (Distemper). Distemper aggressively attacks blood as it is produced in the body which can be carried from mother to developing fetuses. There, it can attack stem cells as they divide, causing the cerebellum in the fetus to develop improperly. The strength of the infection can determine the severity of the hypoplasia.
CH expresses with aberration in gait, poor fine motor control, and tremors. Cases range from mild to severe depending on how severe the locomotive issues affect the animal. Mild cases can appear as minor tremors when concentrating or listing while walking. Moderate cases can display as occasional tumbles while walking, severe tremors when focusing, or inability to jump. Severe cases can display an inability to walk at all, uncontrollable tremors, or inability to stand entirely. More information
In the corner of the 3rd room at the Oshkosh Animal Shelter, we met a sleepy little grey tabby. This cat was the sweetest thing either of us had ever seen. She was recovering from minor surgery on her neck, but was thoroughly cute and quite demanding of chin skriches. We sat with her for about half an hour before seeing some of the kitties pictured above.
But, I tell you, we were smitten. Punch-drunk on grey tabby.
We filled out paperwork for her before we left that night, and Alyska went and picked her up the Tuesday after Labor Day.
We’ve been holding out blasting everyone with news because of Oshkosh’s adoption policies - special needs cat adoption into homes with established pets involves a two week foster-to-adopt period. If either:
We can surrender her back to the shelter without penalty, no questions asked. So we’re technically still pending.
After a week, we have seen very few locomotive issues, no tremors, no jumping problems; so far, she has a definite, permanent head tilt and lists a little to the right when she walks. Occasionally she bobbles, especially when you don’t put all four of her paws down when putting her on the floor, but not consistently. And she jumps like a champ, or a tiny olympian. Otherwise, there don’t not seem to be any of the “moderate CH issues” described by the shelter - she sees more of a mild case.
<img src="_Chipmunks%2C+the+great+equalizer.jpgChipmunks%2C+the+great+equalizer" alt="">Things seem to be working out. There’s been one fight when Minuet bounded into the bathroom while Ginger wasn’t paying attention. No damage, just surprised swiping at air. But, like you can see, they can share space ok (especially if there are chipmunks to watch).
Poe seems to mostly not care any more as long as she gets food. Or treats. Of course.
We’re still waiting for her to tell us her name, but in the meantime, we’ve dubbed her Minuet de la Mancha, a combination of her shelter name (Minuet) and homage to Don Quixote who, among his many adventures with Sancho Panza, went “tilting at windmills” when he jousted with imaginary giants.
Her initial adventures have included chipmunk-hunting with Ginger, mouse noise investigation with Poe, and occasionally sharing the bed with both the other cats and us humans.
Until one of the cats realize what’s happening.
So, while we’re still a long way from perfect, it seems to be working out OK right now.
And she’s such a cutie.
MeI thought it would be kind of neat to see how a poem in process can look. Below is a first draft then the current draft of something I’m working on, one of something_s_ I’m working on if you count everything tagged with wip.
Most of the time, i write an entire poem in a sinle setting. Most of waht I produce is short and has a few key ideas I’m trying to hit. I’ll tweak that draft until I like the phrasing and clarity and what have you and call it a 1st draft.
Here is an example 1st draft:
Awake. This isn’t my
House. This isn’t
My life. Where is
My car, the dappled white
Fluff that grounds me, that
Covers the sheets
Like dusty clouds
Rolling over the hillside.This isn’t my house
This isn’t my
Wife sleeping beside me
Where is her soft
Voiced snoring just at the
Back of the throat that whistles
Like wind between
LeavesAwake and wondering
Through the lonesome mind
Aware enough to know this
Isn’t my house. I do not live here
There must be
Some mistake that you were taken from
Me last night under cold sheets.
This was our house and the
Hills and trees are bare
Long before winter even arrives.
I’ll let this sit for a few days to a few weeks. This, in particular, I wrote first on 8/22. When I’m good on my morning routine (or occasionally over lunch), I’ll open up my WIP tagged pieces and rework something that is familiar but unfamiliar.
That is, I remember writing the poem or the mood or some of the language but not the specifics. I’ll re-read it keep what I remembered in mind. I duplicate the poem and start re-writing it.
Ideally, there is a core image or tone or mood that I try to emphasize. I’ll pick out some phrasing or a metaphor and try to repeat or extend that through the rest of the poem. The stuff I like the most tends to have one core idea and one major metaphor that is peppered in the stanzas and builds to some sort of crescendo.
Awake and cold,
A creeping morning apprehension.
This isn’t my
house. This isn’t
my cat? Where is
the dappled white fur
that covered the sheets
like wild flowers on a hillside.This isn’t my
house. This isn’t my
wife? Where is her soft
voiced sibilance that settled
at the back of the throat
like wind through open petals.Awake and cold
And creeping through my
lonesome mind. Aware. Enough.
This isn’t my life. I loved here
when the sheets were speckled and
warm and rising with rhythm.
The flowers are long dead
before my winter arrives.
Here, I’ve tightened up the language and made the wild flower references a bit firmer. I’ve extended the questioning mood, both literally in the mirrored inteorragative statemnts and with the overall poetic feel, and tried to ally it with the core metaphor.
I’ve now repeated some of the language - like the question over house and “creeping”. I”ve definitely added more reference to the flower imagery. I’ve added more alliteration and especially more consonance. I’m a sucker for good consonance but tend to overuse it and I’m questioning it here, especially in the last stanza.
Though I think it is better, it’s really not done nor particular good (to me). I will tag this as “edited” then leave myself some notes, like what I said above, for when I return to it. Generally, I try to have many fewer days between 2nd and third drafts but that depends on what I write over the next few days.
PoetryBrain like a jello salad
served front and center at a
Midwestern family cookout.
Sweet and gelatinous
until you inevitably confront
the one sour grape
that lingers
the rest of the meal
like husky uncle Ralph
leering down your shirt.
So much depends
upon
a full red
pen
carving fat
away
from useful
words
I used to want poetry to be enormous, euphonic, entities dripping with imagery. Just full of words like Byron or Shakespeare or Eliot.
The way in which I write has changed so much in the last few years that I’m sort of confused, sort of _be_mused by it. I have become ruthless with editing. It may take an attempt or two to notice a stanza should be deleted or a comma added but I try to pair downeverything as far as possible.
I used to hate stark poetry. Poems like William Carlos Williams’ The Red Wheelbarrow drove me batty.
How can something so bare mean so much?
And I find myself trying desperately to emulate this directness in writing more and more.
I think I understand why, maybe a little. Fewer words, less imagery, and simpler sentences offer less room for error in communicating a poem’s intent while allowing more room for the reader’s interpretation.
Simpler structure begets greater accessibility begets more meaning.
PoetryJust an interlude here. A brief moment for you to better understand a little of how my mind works.
I strive to do a few things everyday, besides my regular job. I try to advance one of my (perhaps too) many goals, be it dying rope for Bunny Rope or reading a book or wrting something. The more regular the more satisfying and *fruitful these times are.
This is especially true with writing time. If I have learned anything regarding writing from the numerous things I’ve read on how to succeed as a write, it is this:
Creating patterns and regular space for writing primes the brain. I have been writing at my kitchen table with my little fold-out keyboard and iPad standing at attention against the smartcover like a loyal, expectant solder. When I turn on the little green light above it, the one @lady_fox and I installed a year after we moved in, and pour myself something to drink, my brain shifts. And if, especially if, I have primed it with good literature in the hours before I sit here, my fingers can hardly keep up.
I regularly write a full poem plus some interesting fragments each night I do this. These then go into the morning editing pile for the next day.
What is really weird, just really skewed in my brain is that, when I do all of this - set myself up for success - my brain asserts that this is clearly cheating and what I’m writing is terrible and I should feel bad.
Very loudly.
Oft repeatedly.
And I find it fascinating….
I’ve achieved.. not exactly an adversarial relationship with my mind… It’s more like it’s a cute, old, and toothless puppy that clearly needs a good ear rubbing and maybe is a little hangry at the world. I’ve gotten to the point now where the Wellbutrin is just so clealy working that I’m stunned at it, my toothless brain puppy.
I tried to create an effective metaphor to describe it on the way home from work today as I was daydreaming about random phrases. The best I could muster was that disthymia, which is the lowgrade depression I have been living with my whole life, is like I’m trying to climb stairs but somebody has greased my shoes with bacon fat. I’m so enamored with the smell that I don’t notice that I keep falling down the stairs.
Wellbutrin has me just taking off the shoes, slinging them over my shoulder, and getting on with climbing them.
So. As I sit here and having written one new poem that I actually really like in about 15 minutes, 1 fragment (that stands alone better than I like), and now this entry, I’m amused that my brain is yapping that it shouldn’t be this easy. But, yeah, maybe it should be sometimes. It isn’t always, for sure.
Well, no. I guess it is right, of course.
I still have to edit the poem. And there are a number of commas to quibble over….
Me