On the day she died Snowball was quiet. "She's been sleeping a lot," Kevin said indicating to Snowball on the couch, "I don't thinks she's moved in hours."
So we put her outside because after she sits in the sun she feels much better. The sun warms her old muscles, it dries up her weariness, the breeze moves her, she smells the flowers. The last we talked I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barb-b-que on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a about death this last year.
Both of us quietly doing our little crafts, watching a movie. I reach out to stroke her bony white little body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me but then says, "all things must pass."
Snowball hurts a lot but she is content with life. She made her peace with death long ago and has allowed herself to be frank with me when I bring it up.
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had several tiny green tomatoes among their branches. We were looking for her that night because she didn't come home and made the discovery. "Kevin, there are tomatoes here."
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball looked at me with sleepy eyes from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing?" she said but what she meant was why are you still in school.
"I need a degree to get a good job and do something with my life," I replied ambivalently.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
And I went to sleep.
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled spending those years of doing my own things, reading my own books, and sleeping well.
When I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Human Society.
In the mornuing lot
an hou earlier I was I got busy in the business of death and mourning. A mental list cropped up and I was on the phone getting checking prices for cremations.
I wish I were one of those heart felt latinas. The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hanketshief and beat my chest shouting, "MIA! MIA!" and collapse in the street.
"Your tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her, Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fufilled.
I believed the lie and
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Date: August 14th
Date: August 14th
Where: Downtown Bend, Oregon - Dudley's Bookshop & Café
Notes:
- Terri's husband Neil tried on a pair of cat-eyed glasses much to my enjoyment.
- Shocking encounter with , Mary Sojourner, Bend's personal Marge Piercy and Source writer shakes me into a boyish smile with her compliments as she flips the pages of my journal. I give her my card and a few personal zines as she works the Buddhist prayer beads from her bracelet adorned wrist. "These are from Free Tibet," she says handing them to me. "I want to interview you for my column."
Mission Statement: To share and educate.
Action:
- showcasing my collection of zines acquired over five years of trades, festivals, and visiting the zine section of bookstores.
- acquaint attendees with my zines.
- exploit my zine-friends to an untapped market.
Theme: Forest and Wood
secondary objective: network and inspect the cultural barometer of Bend's zine interest.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Snowball
And last night the cast away bore us sudden fruit in the form of tiny green tomatoes.
But like I said: it wasn't tomatoes we were looking for. We were looking for something more reliable last night, something that was not cast out, something that was expected home before bedtime and that was Snowball. Where was Snowball?
This morning I looked for her; opened up the doors & let the cool morning air come in. "snow-ball ..." The sing songy voice we save for gentle animal callings. Even Kevin does it followed by the gentle "click click click," the sound made from the sides of our mouths.
Where is she?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
My Dad
In the summers we drove to Forest Park, a verdant chunk of land right outside the city of Portland. Dad brought a long rope and heaved it up strong - the way young dads can - until the rope caught a high branch of this one large oak tree. Then he’d make us a swing that made swing-sets look absolutely ridiculous. Dad swung us so high it was scary.
I loved coloring as a child. Dad drew me pictures of things to color, like a house or a sail boat. He's a very rigid drawer, the kind of guy who uses ball point pens and writes in all capital letters. Sometimes Dad drew me bikes to color, but you can't really color a bike because it's too skinny. I suspect Dad prides himself on being the reason I still love drawing and coloring.
Once, while at the car dealership Dad worked at, Dad asked me to draw a picture of one of his coworkers surrounded by women. I spent a long time drawing. I gave all the women large breasts. Pretty sure Dad was using me to entertain his friends rather then to showcase what a great artist I was.
Dad took me to the dump sometimes to get rid of debris or Christmas trees or something. It was just me and him. The drive was long and I’m sure we listened to Tom Jones along the way. He also took me to Seattle to see some of his buddies because they had a daughter named Marie who was my age. I didn't like Marie but I can't remember why. She had lots of toys and her room was always a mess.
I called Dad a bastard once and he grounded me from spending the night at a friend’s. Then I explained I had no idea what that word meant and he listened and changed his mind and let me go.
In the winter, when the snow fell, Dad, my little brother and sister, and I would lay in the yard wearing only our swimsuits. We froze our butts off challenging one another as to who could stay longer in the snow. Then we’d rush to the hot tub and feel our nerves sting and prick as we warmed up.
In the mornings, when it was really cold, Dad woke up early in the morning to get a fire going in the wood stove. The heat coaxed us out of bed to get ready for school.
After our house flooded, Dad and I spent a lot of our time filling sand bags. We built a bunker in the front yard so that next time it flooded the waters couldn't get inside. Dad and I were a great team. He would scoop while I held the bag out for him. It was winter and our hands got really cold. We were protecting out home. It was very important.
Dad loved his rose bushes. He watered them all the time. I used to check the roses for aphids. Dad gave us roses to give to our teachers. My teacher did not deserve a rose but she got one anyway.
At the beach Dad could dig the most AMAZING holes in the sand. Like four feet deep! After he was done we would stand in them and he would bury us. Thank none of us kids were claustrophobic.
One New Years Dad, it might have been Y2K, Mom and I danced in the living room to (probably) Tom Jones. My Dad did the moonwalk. He never did this before and he has never done it since that night.
When talking to Mexicans Dad takes on a Chinese-Latin hybrid accent. He confused the hell out of my French host parents when he called their house trying to get a hold of me saying, "’Bone-jew,’ Rachel, plait," which means, "Good Day, Rachel likes..."
Sometimes Dad read to us or told us bed-time stories. He tweaked the stories to make them hilarious. To this day he does this and they're still hilarious.
My Dad loves Whale Wars even though he complains the people on the show are morons. "Why don't they drop stuff from the helicopter?!?" he always says. Mom said Dad was really upset when, in one episode, a whale was harpooned and caught.
After my sister and I moved out of the house Dad found Jesus. He refuses to admit the correlation.
As children we weren't allowed to say "KILL" or "HATE." Dad said they were ugly words. They are.
Dad wears briefs.
Instead of cussing Dad censors himself. He says, "What the ____ is going on?!"
On vacations Dad brought his camcorder. He wasted hours of footage filming the road while driving, pointless scenery, mountains, and remarkable things that seen in person are meaningful but on tape are flat and 2-dimensional. As we go through old videos I am sure he regrets it.
Dad is the greatest story teller in the family. He is constantly aware of his audience and a true master of articulation and emphasis. He translates these skills into his lectures which are not as great.
Dad has always loved Patron.
I loved coloring as a child. Dad drew me pictures of things to color, like a house or a sail boat. He's a very rigid drawer, the kind of guy who uses ball point pens and writes in all capital letters. Sometimes Dad drew me bikes to color, but you can't really color a bike because it's too skinny. I suspect Dad prides himself on being the reason I still love drawing and coloring.
Once, while at the car dealership Dad worked at, Dad asked me to draw a picture of one of his coworkers surrounded by women. I spent a long time drawing. I gave all the women large breasts. Pretty sure Dad was using me to entertain his friends rather then to showcase what a great artist I was.
Dad took me to the dump sometimes to get rid of debris or Christmas trees or something. It was just me and him. The drive was long and I’m sure we listened to Tom Jones along the way. He also took me to Seattle to see some of his buddies because they had a daughter named Marie who was my age. I didn't like Marie but I can't remember why. She had lots of toys and her room was always a mess.
I called Dad a bastard once and he grounded me from spending the night at a friend’s. Then I explained I had no idea what that word meant and he listened and changed his mind and let me go.
In the winter, when the snow fell, Dad, my little brother and sister, and I would lay in the yard wearing only our swimsuits. We froze our butts off challenging one another as to who could stay longer in the snow. Then we’d rush to the hot tub and feel our nerves sting and prick as we warmed up.
In the mornings, when it was really cold, Dad woke up early in the morning to get a fire going in the wood stove. The heat coaxed us out of bed to get ready for school.
After our house flooded, Dad and I spent a lot of our time filling sand bags. We built a bunker in the front yard so that next time it flooded the waters couldn't get inside. Dad and I were a great team. He would scoop while I held the bag out for him. It was winter and our hands got really cold. We were protecting out home. It was very important.
Dad loved his rose bushes. He watered them all the time. I used to check the roses for aphids. Dad gave us roses to give to our teachers. My teacher did not deserve a rose but she got one anyway.
At the beach Dad could dig the most AMAZING holes in the sand. Like four feet deep! After he was done we would stand in them and he would bury us. Thank none of us kids were claustrophobic.
One New Years Dad, it might have been Y2K, Mom and I danced in the living room to (probably) Tom Jones. My Dad did the moonwalk. He never did this before and he has never done it since that night.
When talking to Mexicans Dad takes on a Chinese-Latin hybrid accent. He confused the hell out of my French host parents when he called their house trying to get a hold of me saying, "’Bone-jew,’ Rachel, plait," which means, "Good Day, Rachel likes..."
Sometimes Dad read to us or told us bed-time stories. He tweaked the stories to make them hilarious. To this day he does this and they're still hilarious.
My Dad loves Whale Wars even though he complains the people on the show are morons. "Why don't they drop stuff from the helicopter?!?" he always says. Mom said Dad was really upset when, in one episode, a whale was harpooned and caught.
After my sister and I moved out of the house Dad found Jesus. He refuses to admit the correlation.
As children we weren't allowed to say "KILL" or "HATE." Dad said they were ugly words. They are.
Dad wears briefs.
Instead of cussing Dad censors himself. He says, "What the ____ is going on?!"
On vacations Dad brought his camcorder. He wasted hours of footage filming the road while driving, pointless scenery, mountains, and remarkable things that seen in person are meaningful but on tape are flat and 2-dimensional. As we go through old videos I am sure he regrets it.
Dad is the greatest story teller in the family. He is constantly aware of his audience and a true master of articulation and emphasis. He translates these skills into his lectures which are not as great.
Dad has always loved Patron.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Shugust 29th Written
Evening Time
I want to be part of the circus of beautiful things.
If my eyes were cameras I could show youthe way things are supposed to look. Sepia, altered tint, adjusting saturation. Somedays I want the world Wizard of Oz and other days it needs to be antiqued; scratches and laminate peeling in the corner of rain clouds and sidewalks.
I am the postmodern lover of Sylvia Plath
I created you.
{I know you appear, vivid at my side, denying you sprang out of my head, claiming love fiery enough to prove flesh real. But it's quite clear. All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift my dear, from me.
In High School I told everyone I was a creationist before I knew what a creationist really was. }
In High School I told everyone I was a creationist before I knew what a creationist was.I believe in creation. Things are created all the time from nothing more than sparks, two rocks rubbing against each other rolling down the big hill. A little sunshine and we have a garden loosening the nailsof the backporch.
I believe in change. Things are created and then they folly or wisen to the conditions of their existance.
The term Creationism just seems too lovely to chalk up as the interrupting kid in Biology class.
{I justwant to be marvelous enough to be photographed by Lauren Dukoff}
August 29th : if life were any better I would have to start smoking. We all know it can only get worst if it gets bester.
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