Trustworthy Nonnie

                                           

Mountain of Backyard Cats

I have a secret that I have to keep until December 16^th. Difficult as this is, I will do it. Oh, I have told a few people known for their discretion or at least they are not known for being blabbermouths. I’m sure of that... Anyway, it’s not really about them, it’s about me and it will be easier for my confidantes to keep a secret about about me and not them. So, we’re good, right?

I can say these things:

I am not getting married or flying to Paris or a taking off for a hot weekend at some enchanted destination destined to fulfill my every dream, invigorate, inspire, and pamper me as I sip ambrosia with the reincarnation of William Powell.

I did not win 47 million dollars, or any sum whatsobloodyever in the Lottery.

I did not finish a new book. I can say, however, that I am five poems into a new book. This may not sound like much, but the five, no, let’s say six, poems I have written came together after extensive research, meanderings on the Internet, heart-rending plunges into the depths of my very soul, and filling up with literature by authors having (or having had) fine sensibilities. I’m currently reading William Faulkner who may or may not help me write another poem for this new book that I am definitely going to finish because I am a committed, serious, strenuous writer...brutal, even. I am amazed that I had to get this old to appreciate Faulkner. I do, now, though. It’s possible all I needed was more time.

It isn’t a bad thing like another open-heart surgery or a colonoscopy or a prison sentence for God knows what crime I may have been falsely accused of. That wouldn’t be a secret in the town I live in now, anyway. If you’ll notice, I don’t call it “my” town. It’s not mine; it’s theirs.

My brother and I are not getting another pet on December 16^th. That would be extravagant. We have three excellent cats and a tender dog who live in the house with us and six more cats who have come to us and live in the backyard. We feed the backyard cats and they have my brother’s outside shower stall, which he misses, but there you go, to pile up in and get out of the wind and rain. We’re in Florida, so winter isn’t much of an issue. Although I should rub a rabbit’s foot or something because with the weather getting weirder every year, who knows?  They are all remarkable, people-cuddling, funny cats but they have to live outside. That’s all there is to it. I’ve taken two for their operations and rabies shots and the others are all scheduled to go next month. Responsibility almost rules me.

This secret is good news. That’s why it’s driving me crazy. Who doesn’t like to shout good news? No one. Some people seem to get a kick out of sharing bad news, though. I’ve known and even loved people who slam bad news in your face like slapstick comedians with coconut cream pies. That’s not my particular thrill. But, when I know something lovely, and you don’t, it’s hard for me not to give it up. Good secrets itch and tickle, and sometimes feel like happy burps bubbling up. But, I promised and I am a brutal promise-keeper. Sorry. You’ll have to wait.

On Feeling a Certain Age

That’s me in the photo. I was 19, performing in a Juilliard dance concert. My partner, Mark, was not looking at my ass; he was looking at my supporting leg, making sure that he was supporting me en pointe. I’m posting this photo of me at 19 and these poems because I don’t feel strong today, and in the tradition of Emily Dickinson’s “This is My Letter to the World” sometimes you just want to throw it out there. I have some nerve including poems of my own with one of Emily’s, but there you go.

This is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me,-- 

The simple news that Nature told, 

With tender majesty. 

Her message is committed 

To hands I cannot see; 

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me! 

Emily Dickinson

-------------------------

Whirl

Wanna,wanna, whoop de loop.

Hold my baby, kiss my mom,

dance the way I used to do.

Desktops, blacktops, cut and paste,

speed down hills, learn the rules,

Sister Saint Marion, married to Christ.

Sixteen, life-green, pink tights, Swan Lake,

an Italian summer, a Venetian romance,

NYC my campus, Matisse, Philip Glass,

then mountains, desert, New Mexico’s gold, 

headstrong, headlong, swayed by applause,

wandering through canyons colored by God.

A year spent in England, the Isle of Wight,

rock seafronts in Cornwall, Land’s End of the world,

a pause for the Maritimes, soft greens, booming tides.

Then my bearings got lost. I was drunk on the street--

had nothing but loathing till they lent me a hand.

Wanna,wanna, whoop de loop.

Hold my baby, kiss my mom,

dance the way I used to do.

My mind’s got some fluff but she copes well enough. 

I’ve foundered in Florida with its heat and humidity, 

glorious beaches, and churchy stupidity.

I have a sick heart so I do less and less, 

but I write at an old French writing desk.

I could use a cruise, a steadier step, 

a long walk in Paris with Johnny Depp.

It appears gone for good are dramas and bothers, 

threats and therapists, drunk, needy lovers. 

And... lovely, lovely, lovely is my cat’s furry belly.

After Another Reading of Raymond Carver's "All of Us"

Young, strong, brave me, doing all that!

Dancing, teaching, performing, making this,

making that. I drank great draughts

of art, all kinds, you name it.

Used the fine work out there

to define, refine, defend my being,

my sincere effort to soar.

It was almost glorious.

There was, of course, a catch. For many

of those nearly triumphant years, I slogged

through a swampy mess each night.

Yes, every night. I'll stand by that.

Same old, same old. So and so loved me, but

I wanted you and you wanted her, then her.

And for all that time I couldn't get free,

couldn't toss you off, over, away, used Scotch

to dull my fury and so became more pitiful.

From here, out of all that, well-rested,

I can see that awful catch of mine

has a place at the table, in fact, near

the head, across from the almost glory.

My foolishness can be read, watched,

listened to, painted. And it has been.

Will be. Now it's time for some lunch.

Alice Turns Adam Down

"So, you see, you are simply the wrong partner

for this part of the dance. I'd thought 

someone in a blue shirt, with a side part 

in his blond hair, and your hair is red. 

So even if you changed your shirt to a blue,  

I wouldn't, simply couldn't, choose you.

Dance with someone else, why don't you?

You could dance with the woman over there 

wearing that very long string of pearls.

Or how about that woman in the long red dress. 

Do you like long dresses? Or someone else?

Oh. You often wear blue shirts, do you? 

You don't care for long dresses or pearls? 

You like my green eyes and so choose me? 

But that doesn't matter, to me, you see. 

You’re simply all wrong for this part of the dance."

“10 percent of any population is cruel, no matter what, and 10 percent is merciful, no matter what, and the remaining 80 percent can be moved in either direction.” 

― Susan Sontag

I was trying to write a poem. Write a poem? No. That’s too lofty a description to give to what I was doing. I was scribbling, then crossing out my scribbles. Drago was sleeping in his hospital bed. We were in a familiar (to many of us) situation. A rumor of possible discharge that day circulates and so waiting ensues. Neither my brother or I are the kind of patients who require, or enjoy, the constant presence of another, however much we might like them, in our hospital room while we lie there being sick, at least if there isn’t a crisis going on with us. But since I was there, and there was a rumor, it seemed best to stay so that I could get him home. Six and a half hours later I did get him home, which was a wonderful relief, but I would have been happy to go home and come back to the hospital. Well, you know what I’m nattering about. 

At one point during the afternoon, two LPN’s were hanging out with the man in the next bed. Yes, hanging out.  Michelle, the nurse who my brother had told me was very nice and had been on the day shift with him for three days was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, and the other was in a chair. Was the guy in the bed a pal, I wondered?

Our neighbor, down in Southport? My brother’s girlfriend, well, she fed my dog antifreeze, Michelle said.

I stopped trying to write and listened.  My brother and I have a dog and three cats who share a house with us. We adore them and they adore us right back.

It took him three days to die. Good Lord it was one horrible death. He started with throwing up and acting sick, and then on the third day he had seizures. That’s when we had took him to the Vet. Our Vet told us he would of had crystals formed in his kidneys and spreading all over until he shut down. We didn’t know what was wrong or we would have had put him down sooner.

I’ve seen suicides come in here who have taken antifreeze. It’s an awful way to kill yourself, I think, Rita, the LPN in the chair, said.

Okay, now I was just taking dictation.

He was one of those tall, long-legged Pit Bulls? And we had a chain link fence and an underground shocker thing if he ever was to have got near enough to the fence. He did when we first put it in and that taught him good. Should have seen how it got to him! I laughed all day. We wanted to be careful with him because, you know, his being a Pit Bull and all and the way people are about them. But Tebow was as sweet to me and my husband as anything. Now, he did like to play “Toss the Kitty.” But they shouldn’ta have let their cat get in our yard. By the time I found out it was her who done it? She’d moved to friggin Arizona!  And so now I'll never get my hands on her. 

Rita said, I’m thinking about getting a dog. A small one. Maybe a Chihuahua.

Oh, don’t do that if you want a smart dog! They are so stupid. My own house dog is a Chihuahua and it took me two years to train it not to pee in the house! "Lord," I said to it “How many times do I have to beat you?” My son, Austin? He has a Jack Russell and that dog's e-ver-y bit as hyper as my child. I was about to give him some of my son’s ADHD medication, but I might have had run out of pills. They just try to wear each other out all day long, the two of them. But they never do settle. It don't matter what all I do to them.

My brother’s cell phone rang then and I listened to his end of the conversation. When he got off the phone he told me that the gym had gotten people to cover the yoga classes he teaches. I didn’t notice when the nurses left the room. Eventually Michelle came over to our side of the curtain with discharge papers for my brother to sign. She was pleasant, polite, and helpful, but I’d had an image of a Pit Bull playing “Toss the Kitty,” in my head for several hours and I wasn’t fooled.

Fleeting Laziness in Birds and Catching Myself Being Selfish

My brother built a planter for roses

in the garden on the side of our house.

A dove couple came and thought things over.

There in the corner they whispered.

Could they dutifully take their turns,

(as doves do) she from three to ten,

he from ten to three, 

until they hatched the usual two?  

They wondered if my brother had done all

this work just for them and their young?

They were tempted, I knew.

But, no. He raised objections.

She made several good points.

Building in this easy, shady,

new-wood-smelling spot would not

be a sound dove decision.

Neighborhood cats were known to jump

right off the roof into the garden.

There's Blossom, the dog, who can get

overexcited and occasionally loud.

Sam, the cat, is meant to stay

inside his screened-in porch,

but could they really count on that

always being the case?

Their cool gray heads prevailed.

The house-hunting birds flew off and after they'd left,

I found a mound of red mulch, dove-sized, dented and soft.

They were right to take flight. I know that, of course.

Nonnie and Drago are Fine, Really

Nonnie and Drago are Fine, Really

The world had a rather bad week, of course. Well, parts of the world have only had a few good weeks, if that, in the last decades, but it seemed to us that what with weather disasters in the Far East, further diplomatic dust-ups in or about the Middle East (where is the Near East, again? I have trouble keeping my Easts straight, and who are they east of, exactly?) and the global economy's inability to hold onto global money, it's been a lousy week. The hiker's got out of Iran, though. I'm happy for them and I hope they don't do anything like that again.

Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Bill Maher pretty much covered Drago and my U.S. woes this week. Last night Bill and his panel even discussed Troy Davis and all of that, but it was a writer friend of mine, in Zoetrope, where we sometimes hang, who brought up lawyers and the gazillions in legal fees (not paid by the prisoner in question-I mean, when was the last time the U.S. executed a rich man?) that get racked up when people are in death row for, say, twenty-two years. If I ever have to be executed for something, I think I'd just as soon go the guillotine route and right after getting the bad news. I could pretend I was Ronald Colman at the end of A Tale of Two Cities. I don't want to be on death row, waiting, hoping, then getting whacked anyway, for even one year. Okay? Oh, and there was another Republican debate. So, that happened, and happened, and happened.

One of our neighborhood's best dogs died of digestive problems. A little guy named Ralphie. All the dogs and dog people loved him. And Daisy, a totally non-aggressive Yorkie, got bitten by a visiting dog who was OFF HIS LEASH! This morning our cat Sam fell in the pool. (Yeah. We have a pool. Dad put it in back when you could still be middle class.) Our dog Blossom looked more worried than guilty; we don't think she did it. Sam's okay, now, but he was very sad for awhile.

Drago saved a hummingbird whose beak got caught in a screen, though. That was an upful ting (I'm learning Jamaican slang.) Florida's weather is cooling off, sorta, and our Aunt Peggy sent us pictures of old times and places, people we've lost (on this plane, anyway) and people who are wonderfully alive and kickin'. Here's one of me when I graduated high school. Still shiny, you know?

Heart and Souls

The Best

Oh, dogs. Dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs.

Here she is. There they were. 

Riding along, running along, alongside, 

At my feet, on their backs, in my lap,

Kisses, kisses, kisses, kisses.

Play, play, play, play, play, oh, play.

Bark, snort, growl, yip, yap, giggle

Brave, yes, ready, always, obey, meh.

Hurray for food, naps, pissing!

Damn all fireworks!

Love, love, love, oh love, love

Dogs…and cats. Of course. Cats.

And

The Lost Elizabeths

Dead, of course. Long dead. The documents tell me who these Elizabeths and Catherines married, and what children they birthed, raised, or lost, but not who they were before they changed their names to his and his. They kept their English, Irish, French, Austrian given names, so often showing up as some version of Catherine or Elizabeth. Kathleen, Katrine, Kate, Kay. Eliza, Elsie, Berta, Birdie.  Last night I found a new (old, so old) marriage record and finally, for Catherine Eulalie, there is a surname. Wonderful discovery, that. Eulalie, as she was called, lived twenty years before she married Charles, and maybe I can find out who her parents were, where they came from, where I come from. Maybe these women who contributed their DNA were harridans,  but I choose to think of these lost Elizabeths as gentle women and as, certainly, brave women.  I’m going to continue to search for them. It feels like I owe them that.