A bad year for cats

Ever since the boys were very young, we've had two cats. The same two, I mean. One per boy. We got them as litter mates when Son 1 was maybe three years old and Son 2 was two. (I might be off by a year.) One was a black-and-white male; the other, an all-black female. Right away the boys asked, "Which of us gets which cat?" Wife told them, "The cats get to decide." Sure enough, within a week Cat 1 was sleeping on Son 1's bed, and Cat 2 on Son 2's. That pattern remained fixed until we sold the house ... and maybe after, for all I know. Wife got custody of the cats.

The boys are both home from college for the summer, and they are staying with Wife. They made this decision for multiple practical reasons: she has an Internet connection (and I haven't gotten one yet); she has two cars, both automatic transmissions, and she hardly ever goes anywhere so they can use them (whereas I have one car, with a manual transmission, and I take it to work every day). Also if they stay with her they can keep an eye on her, in case she gets sick or delusional or crazy.

And she has the cats. Whom the boys love.

Yesterday afternoon, I got a text message from Son 1. He said that Wife and Son 2 had taken Cat 1 to the vet, who had diagnosed him with kidney failure and said he had to be killed. What about treatment? Not possible. If he weren't killed now, he would die anyway in a couple of days.

So now I guess she has one cat.

And I guess it is a good thing the boys are staying with her right now.
__________

P.S. The title of this post comes from my e-mail to Marie telling her about this. I chose it because Marie's cat, too, has been diagnosed with something life-threatening, though it hasn't required killing her yet. So clearly it's a bad year for cats ....
   

Plato's birthday 2017

Today is Plato's birthday, and Marie sent me a poem.

May Day

 

moving into darkness

moving into light

dusk to dawn to dusk

 

the day turns, and turns again,

and turns

 

moving into darkness

moving into light

winter into spring

into new winter

 

the year turns, and turns again,

and turns

 

All Hallows and the world darkens

the days shrink and chill

 

May Day and the world shines

nights retreat as leaves unfurl

 

and amid the shining, the knowing

that the world will darken again

 

and in the dark, the knowing

that the world will shine again

 

the world turns, and turns again,

and turns

 

dark is a turn in the dance

 

 

Later, talking about it, she said part of what was on her mind was that dark moods and darkness in your life turn and change just the same way that seasonal darkness does. So for her part she doesn't have to let a dark mood feel too important to her, because "Dark is a turn in the dance."

Full moon

Marie and I were discussing theology (it's a long story) and out of the blue she said she wanted to read a poem by me that expresses reverence or awe. (I'm not sure if this is because she thinks I'm fundamentally irreverent, or for some other reason.)

So after about a day I sent her this. It's a re-creation of what full moon rituals were like, back when Wife was healthier and we lived together. (I told you all that Wife used to be Wiccan, right?) 

Then she had a bunch of detailed questions about the rituals. But it's another poem, so let me record it here lest I forget it.

The biographical details are all a jumble, conflating different decades. Don't expect any of the names to be right, either.

——————————

 

"George and Lynn just arrived."

        "Is that everyone? No wait -- where's Sun-bear?"

"He called and can't make it. You'll have to take the part of priest."

 

That's my wife, the priestess. Earlier we bickered about her latest parking ticket.

"There was no sign," she said. "They didn't post No Parking."

Or else she never looked, never saw. Oh well, too late now. Money down the drain. Again.

All afternoon she whined about her work. Her boss is a fool; her co-workers are lazy idiots.

Can't she ever make friends on the job? She's been fired enough, you'd think she'd try a little honey now and then

Instead of always vinegar.

 

We're all here so it's time to set up.

The altar goes to east. Let's use this table.

East means in front of the television, more or less.

Here's the candles, the chalice. Do we have some wine? Of course.

How about cakes? There's crackers -- kind of stale but they'll do.

Oh look, there's Ak-Mak. That's always good. We'll use that.

Move the chairs so we can make a circle. George, can you take one end?

Meanwhile my wife's in back, donning her robes and cord.

Is everything in place? Yes, and the sun is down. The kids are in bed. Let's start.

 

I exorcise the salt, to make it pure.

I exorcise the water in the shell,

Then sprinkle salted water round the ring,

With flame and incense mark the compass points.

My priestess wife holds out her athamé,

And casts a magic circle in this place —

To keep in magic powers, so she says,

Or else keep out the dull mundanity

Of seeing our suburban living room.

At compass points, by sawing in the air,

We carve out pentagrams and call the gods,

To guard our circle and to watch the rites.

Then we join hands and say the Blessing Prayer,

That calls the Cosmic One and other pow'rs

To bless this time, this place, and those with us.

 

Then stands the priestess still, hood over face.

I perch down on the floor in front of her

And call an invocation to the Moon.

"Come down, possess your priestess, use her voice,

Her eyes, her hands, and all her body else,

To speak to us who stand and wait for you."

I seal it with a fivefold kiss: her feet,

Her knees, her crotch, her breasts, and last her mouth.

Then hold in silence while I wait to see

If it's a goddess who looks back and speaks,

Or just her daily, unexotic self.

 

Lady dark and Lady fair:

The sudden stillness of the air,

The chills I feel, my clutching throat,

Your voice that sounds a low, clear note,

The radiant light behind your eye —

By all these things I know you nigh.

 

You speak — the very stars stand still —

You ask me gently what's my will?

I don't remember what I say.

I tell you why I fret today.

I fear my wife's health's getting worse.

(That's you, except it's not of course.)

I hope my boys, now eight and ten,

Will grow up into fine young men.

 

You pause, and then you start to say,

To gods we're like the flies of May.

My day has nought to trouble me,

When looked at from Eternity.

The road marked for my wife is hard,

With pain and sickness closely barred.

But those who will to serve the gods

Must meet their tests, despite the odds.

And then you bless me with fire and earth,

For Love, Abundance, Home and Hearth.

 

She steps aside to greet the next in line,

A mere six inches from my elbow; but

I cannot hear a word that either says.

And so around the circle, aye, she goes,

Advising, reprimanding, blessing too;

Leaves one in tears, one with a shining smile,

And all in silence – so far as I can hear.

Then, when at last she's gone clear round the ring

And talked to everyone she turns away,

Stands vacant-eyed, sways, tries to stay erect.

The spirit leaves her and, emptied, she falls.

 

"What's next?"

        "Now we can do magical work, if you need a spell cast."

"Can I get my housemate to turn down his stereo?"

"Can I get a raise? It's been too long since the last one and prices keep going up."

"I need a job."

So we stumble through the spellwork, share cakes and wine, thank the gods and watchers and take down the circle.

And then we sit and talk about it all.

Some don't have much to say; others, more.

I say the Lady spoke clearly, the possession was strong and sure.

"Did you ask Her about my health?" pipes up my wife.

"Am I going to get better? After all this shit will things finally get easier for me?"

"No, not exactly...."

 

It's late. Our guests have gone. My wife's in bed.

I'm tidying up the litter, putting the chairs back where they go.

Taking out the trash.

Above, the full moon shines almost like day.

I look at Her and smile: so You were here,

To walk and talk with us, and bless us too,

Even as you shine o'er all the world.

 

I watch your lovely visage bright.

Thank you, Lady, and good night.

 

felicitous phrasing

Marie just wrote me from work:

Begin forwarded message:

From: [Marie]
Date: April 24, 2017 
To: [Hosea]
Subject: felicitous phrasing

So one of the employees just announced over her radio, "Customer Service, I need a quickie at register X...."

I do too, come to that, but I won't ask any of the customer service people for it.

Monday morning

Asleep I quarrel with dead people.
Awake I stumble and grumble and page through Broumas.
Either way I wish you here:
To hold you
To caress your hair
To close my eyes and not to talk.


Sent from my iPhone

Love is blind, love is kind

In the course of talking about things, Marie and I have talked about my earlier lovers and I have shown her some of the poems I wrote for D. So naturally enough, at one point Marie said she was feeling wistful that I had so idealized D early in that relationship, whereas Marie didn't feel that I'd ever much idealized her. (Although note this letter here.)

Of course she and I met almost forty years ago. Our honeymoon period was long ago. So we talked some more, and after a while Marie saw it the same way too. And then after a little while she sent me a poem about it. (Among other things in this poem, she picked up on a story I had told her about D: that on our twelfth date, as I was reading her Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I realized that she hadn't heard a single word I'd said for several chapters but was just enjoying the sensuous feel of listening to my voice. In a sense it was flattering, but I was also kind of irked because I had wanted to discuss the ideas.)

She and I have gotten to the point where we can collaborate on poetry: either of us can point to a rough spot in the other's poem and suggest improvements. So we talked about this one, smoothing out this and rewording that, for almost three weeks. And finally came up with a version that I really like. (To be clear, I really liked the very first version. But this one is better.) 

All men assent to this:  that Love is blind;

That lovers can’t discern’s a common jest.

Yet men might better say that Love is kind,

That Love’s eyes open only to the best.

And so a man whose shoulders spoke of strength,

I admir’d as self-disciplined and kind.

So when a woman let you speak at length,

You trusted to have found a fellow mind.

But no; she craved your voice and not your thought.

And no; he trained his body, not his soul.

Though first we saw but virtues, and we fought

‘Gainst seeing flaws, that with strengths make the whole.

Yet we each other’s failings long did know,

Our vision clear though colored by Love’s glow.



  

The sky is grey

My email traffic to Marie hit a lull because I was traveling so much for work, and felt so crappy with my chronic cough, and was just tired. And she wrote me expressing a certain dismay over the fact. Things weren't going any better for her, and she looked forward to my emails to brighten her day ... and now there weren't any. What gives?

Of course she understood, but a couple days later I sent her this in answer:

The sky is grey, the sun is hid;
     I think it's going to rain.
My taxes sit at home, undone;
     My rent is wrong, again.
My body's weak, my muscles hurt;
     I think I've got the flu.
I've eaten ramen for a week;
     I'm craving something new.
And then your fucking emails stop;
     Now what the hell's with that?
If you can't ev'n distract me
     I'll just curl up with my cat!


I can't make it all better;
     All I know is, even this
Will one day be the distant past.
     I sign off with a kiss.