(this is your adversity)

this is your adversity:

running downhill.
consumption.
memories of fingers on your bare back.


your comeuppance:

toddler pajamas.
dark closets. a favorite pocketknife.
fear and want.


your salvation:

cliches and violins.

(But praise)

What lifts the heron leaning on the air
I praise without a name. A crouch, a flare,
a long stroke through the cumulus of trees,
a shaped thought at the sky — then gone. O rare!
Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees,
would have cried Father! Cry anything you please

But praise. By any name or none. But praise
the white original burst that lights
the heron on his two soft kissing kites.
When saints praise heaven lit by doves and rays,
I sit by pond scums till the air recites
Its heron back. And doubt all else. But praise.
         

--John Ciardi, from the poem The White Heron (as quoted in The Heron Dance Book of Love and Gratitude)

(Ukraine. March 1, 2014)

If the young piano tutor can protest
in the fire-flashed streets with two broken ribs
and his friend killed behind him ("Something changed in me. I am no longer afraid.")
then surely
I can clean the apartment with a fever.

I scrub the sink then kneel down
on my hands and knees sweeping
from under the bed
dust, plastic wrappers, shreds of linen,
a crumpled sock.

I scrape up the dirt with my hands, sift it
into plastic bags and carry it to the porch
where it is cold, and dark,
and stand inhaling.

And stand aching.

and return to the apartment
where I can do nothing,
where it is warm, and full of comforts,
not the least of them the sound
of a piano playing.

(vocalizations/weekday nights)

It's amazing, the difference mint makes.


I think I really like being human right now.


He is a bully, and you are great.


Lemon ginger, please.


Good boy.


It will require experimentation. Does that make sense?

(The Book of Wilson)

Wilson sees no reason why things should not go his way today, tomorrow, five minutes from now, and every moment hereafter.


Wilson believes in keeping up with current events. He spends several hours each day looking out the window for this purpose.


Wilson prioritizes what is truly important. For instance, when a mouse started chewing inside the wall behind the washing machine, he did not leave his post on top of the washing machine for several hours. Not even when it was time for his five-hour-long nap.


Wilson believes in the power of cuddling.


Wilson will not settle. Not Fancy Feast, nor five-dollar cans of organic tuna will suffice when what he really wants is Natural Choices Turkey & Salmon Dinner Slices. He knows what he wants and he will meow until he gets it.


Wilson believes that everyone, everywhere, should sleep as much as possible.


At the same time Wilson is a firm believer in the importance of physical fitness. This is why he runs laps around the apartment, and up and down the stairs, and across the female human's torso, over and over again at 5:30 every morning.


Wilson prioritizes the long-term relationships in his life, even when glitzier friends come along. For instance, even after Catnip Everdeen showed up in the toy basket, smelling so good he sees visions, he still makes sure to spend quality time every day with his dear friend Mr. Fish.


Wilson believes in the importance of creative outlets. His personal brand of catharsis comes in the form of scratching posts, scratching burlap pads, and scratching the arms of the white chair in the living room. Occasionally he will bite the female human's ear lobes, but only when she is not giving him enough attention while she is sleeping and he needs to express his frustration.


If Wilson falls, he lands on his feet and keeps on walking.

(of it)

Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.


--Eugene Debs, to the judge who sent him to prison in 1918 as a result of the Espionage Act.

(day)

Today I am in love with the woman in the sex tape. I think his name as she comes.

Today there is a map of Pennsylvania on the bedroom wall. I think about inking over New Jersey with a permanent marker, but that seems harsh.

Today the moose sit on their log bench, where they always sit-- whispering and laughing together, doing their damndest to remind me of when I was camping in Vermont. I looked up at the stars they were flying and I was loved.

Today the squat grey lamp sits on the quilt stand, ceramic, hugged by the tan shade, looking altogether like something a person who owns quilt stands and handmade lamps would use to light their bedroom.

Today I am lying knees bent under me one leg in and out of the covers. I turned it off because I could not do it any more. I could not do it any more.

Today, as every day, the cat needs love. He cannot understand why the bedroom door is sometimes closed. When I open the door he wails his way in, indignant, and sniffs me all over before curling up in the blankets. The nerve of me, to think it reasonable for him to spend a few minutes anywhere else.

Today the hand-stitched curtains hang grey at the tips. This is what two years without dusting has wrought. The previous tenant made them and she left them for me. Who am I to tell her she didn't spend enough time cleaning windowsills?

Today I walked circles in this city that is new to me, yet so old, mine as much as it is George Washington's, or the man smoking outside of the bank.

Today, and henceforth, I am learning to accept the holes in the baseboards. Perhaps not everything needs to be patched.