A most likely unexpected subject

In these early mo(u)rning hours of October 27th, I would like to talk about my cat.

I have argued for years now that she is indeed the best cat to have ever existed and I will continue to stand by that claim for the years to come. 

Jewels is a spritely little thing, feisty to the core –enough to have her vet chart marked so as to alert everyone that if her blood is to be drawn, she is to go under–and as affectionate as can be. She is a perfectly well-balanced bundle of love and ferociousness... and cute. 

The hearts of all my friends have been won, in one way or another, by her personality and purrs. The heart of my dog, Pepper, has also been won by this wondrous little cat who walks with us to the end of the driveway on walks and then sits and yowls until we come back. She is definitely an independent part of the pack. 

She is also my baby, my 10-year old baby. I love her so deeply it has worried me, as I've always known I would lose her before I was ready. 

Sure enough, she has kidney failure, and will not be here this time next year to insistently lay on me while I wrestle with the confusion of having lived without the presence of my mother for another whole year. She will be gone far too soon, far too young, similar to my mom.

I know pet grief is harder to understand, because, really, it's just a cat. But fuck that, because it is truly losing another dear dear member of my close family. 

"I can't lose you. I need you to help me get through this. If you died soon, I don't know what I would do."

–A short conversation with my cat upon first returning to Bowling Green after my mother's passing

Yes, I now grapple with the guilt of feeling so torn up about the forthcoming loss of my cat during this particularly poignant time that should be focused on my mother and what it  means for her to have been gone for an entire year. 

But I know my mother would understand. 

She would cry with me. She would know that grief can both mingle and layer and added feelings do not remove others. 

I still remember and currently have particularly strong feeling-memories of what took place last year. I could never forget–the pain, the relief, the "perfect chaos" as I said that night. Now it is just, everything.  One can always feel deeper and wider. Our emotional beings are quite expansive, as you know... or as you'll see. My cat, my mother... I love them both so much, I wish these loved ones would stay put for awhile. 

I just thank Godallahbuddahshiva everything everything and the universe that my cat can die peacefully instead of going through a long, drawn out, and painful death, a dignity my mother did not quite get. 

Fall

Green to red, yellow, orange to brown; to dead from alive.

We watch, baring witness to the inevitable waning of life, the beauty of the trees.

A turning of the seasons... to turn a new leaf–and yet:

clutching, clinging... hanging by the weakening thread to that which once did sprout us.

 F

A

L

L

i

n

.

.

.

g

Shrivel up to nothing, but your time had already come.

When was the end? 

The snap? The reddening? The fall? The impact?

I really enjoyed "Welcome to the Monkey House"

I wrote this last May, pieces of it simply do not apply anymore, but I don't have the heart to edit my old self out, my younger self should still have a voice--her voice was just as true. 

I am no good at this, trust me. 

I will not cuddle with you when I have the chance, so few chances as we are all moving so quickly now. 

I will not hug you goodbye; I can't stand what it means.

I will not tell you I love you even if it is true every second of every day and even if I feel in my fingertips that soon (everything seems soon, now) the days will stop for you or I and therefore all will stop for you and me. 

I cannot bear the weight of my own emotions, I am embarrassed by them even though I preach the consequences of invulnerability. I know if I showed you how I felt it would only make you feel good, or, well, at least connected, which is good. 

Alas, that is not me, not yet. Hypocrisy, hah! Be vulnerable! I scream, at everyone, but then you touch me comfortingly and I recoil for no lack of trust.

I begin by establishing the vast space between myself and those I love most. I finish by griping of being lonely. 

Scatter the flowers now – – – 

I will not let myself live–I think, anyway. I cannot tell if I am preventing myself from living or grieving and am perplexed as to how I've let myself fall victim to such a dichotomy. 

Lately, (a grand lately, spanning months) I have mourned many pasts. One such past being the moment and the moments (encompassing days) right after my mother died. 

Anticipation, over; and suffering with it. I said "that's good" when I walked into the room and I meant it, that is what she had wanted. It was so good for all of it was pure and raw and unhindered, unquestioned. 

You cry and you cry and you cry and nobody asks you what is wrong, not even yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned.

You sit and sit and sit with books or friends or movies or thoughts and nobody asks you when you will start moving again, not even yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

You take five steps outside, you go out to eat, you manage to sleep and everybody congratulates you, especially yourself. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

You do not feel guilty for any of it, especially not the sad, sluggish, angry parts. Pure, raw, unhindered, unquestioned. 

Perhaps I became addicted to it. I miss it. Her, more than then, but of the postmortem, I miss it. 

I find solace when people tell me they miss her, when they cry, when they tell me they are having a hard time... I feel guilty for that. 

It is all complicated now. I don't talk about it much anymore, or cry near folks, or feel okay sitting around because it has been seven months and dear lord, I used to think seven months was a long time.

Enter a cave now? – – –

The whole thing is polluted with time. 

I just observe while everyone moves along with the time, I know they are!

You are moving to Africa, you are conducting research, you are creating a feature-length screen-play, you are writing new songs, you are planting and harvesting, you are going to China, Germany, you are fostering new relationships, you are practically immobile but still working on projects to better the community, you are moving... fucking moving all the time...

creating a life while I cling to one that will never revive. I envy it all, that forward thrust, it reminds me that I should get up. I peer proudly yet jealously at those who move forward and still if I feel time tugging at me I resist with all my might. Truly, I only feel capable of approaching life maybe 2, 3 days a week, a step up from D-day, but damn, so slow. 

"You just have to keep moving" my mom always said when my heart was sick. 

I know how very right she is, I see how well it works for others. Others with worse ails than I, creating creating creating such great things because of it. 

Fuck, I must be weak. 

I am wary of myself. I don't trust that any of this is normal; really I'm just lazy. 

Ex. I gave myself one main task to do in the 2.5 weeks I was in the stable town I sometimes call home and did not even begin it. 

I wish I were someone else. No one in particular, but not me. 

My life is grand, comparatively. It is my desire to whine about it still that makes me wish for a different conscious soul. Maybe that one wouldn't squander the gifts. 

Backwards and forwards I am my own worst enemy. 

Also, I can't sleep much anymore, wtf is that?! 

9/26/2014

What if I had stayed? What if I had not persisted in the pursuit of my new frontier?

There was a ping of disappointment when I realized I could still take those first steps away from everything I knew and was, from you, whom I loved so much; and the cozy system of understanding… but just a ping.

Somewhere deep inside I trusted the instinct to throw myself out. Now, three years later, I am endlessly grateful for that leap of faith, for that persistence, for that twist from fear to adventure. Now, I am here. I am not all that I ever want to be, but I am here–in a life I could not have dreamt existed. Now, I am so thankful, for my life. This is something that oft receives no praise from me, but it’s easy to get caught up in the sorrows of not only myself, but those I love. My life, though, solely mine, the one created by luck and miracle, etched out and fought for by myself and my loved ones; this one I am thankful for.

This will not last all moments, but this moment is as true as any other.