Friday, September 26, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

You wake up, and your jaw creaks open. You look in the mirror and expect to see broken teeth, spider-webbed abutments holding them in place. You never sleep through the night and, when you do, you wake up like someone stuffed your nostrils full of Disney powder. Don't eat the apple! There's no point dwelling on it. Use it. Twist it your way. The whole world is malleable on Fridays. 

You wonder at the strangeness of the voyage; fun-house faces leer in the darkness, and you either reach for them - wanting to remember - or you shake your head like a wet dog. It doesn't work. You lost your grip on the controls, see? And now you're bumper-car crazy down the shoulder of the freeway - all the way to the wrist where the skin is soft and pale. 

Freeways have shoulders, but they are heartless bastards nonetheless. Drive on.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. Happy Friday!

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


I never write the title first. You'd think I'd remember that. Still, I try it. It's like the goddamn toaster oven all over again. Never use the glove because this time I'll do it and not burn the shit out of my hand and have to eat toast that tastes like burnt hair. Now, where was I? I got myself all twisted with a title for something that didn't exist yet, and now I feel it like warm hands around my neck.

I think people think I'm lazy. I realized that today. I get it. If they could read minds they'd know there ain't nothing lazy about it. Shit's like a Rotary Club meeting where a disgruntled waiter dosed everyones' grey coffee. I'm gonna buy a blue blazer with gold buttons and sit in the corner scrabbling at my cuticles and singing Jethro Tull in my head. Come on, I'm the Whistler! I have a fife. And a drum to play!

I think I think about what other people think about me too much. I think I think about what I think about myself too much. I think too much, period. I think too much about thinking too much. Where's that fucking waiter? Maybe he has some Benzos.

I met a woman recently who told me I have nice forearms. It was weird. It was weirder than if she'd told me that my shoes were really antennas that transmit my thoughts to the magic fire people who live inside the earth. I told her I type a lot. She looked at me like I was crazy. Ain't it grand.

I'm trying this first person thing because my friend got me thinking on it. He looks EXACTLY like Jimi Hendrix, by the way. Fucking unreal. Facebook wouldn't lie.

I used to write in the first person a lot. Now, it's second for short, third for long. Most of the time. And now I feel like a football announcer, only I'm not trying to make excuses for degenerate fucking assholes or trying to be the sensitive, understanding guy who wants to land a contract with ESPN.

I don't like talking about me. Not in a way that you can see. Not that I write about me anyway. I write about shadings and slight of hand tricks. I take perception and turn it into deception, courting true lies. I'd like to say I do it for profit, but I'm sure not profiting. I don't know why I do it. I write a damn good guilt trip though. Want to take one?

I like it when my brain shuts the fuck up for a little while. That's what happens when I write. Make sense? Nope. Doesn't make sense to me either.

Friday, September 19, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces and link back here, that would be lovely. 

Are my eyes open yet? Would I know? That's one of them fancy questions the college kids like. But, it's relevant. Shit's all blurry. Is my brain functioning? Would you know? If I spin around on this chair, arms flung wide, eyes to the popcorn ceiling, what? If I stood at the top of an ivy-tinseled tower and sang at the top of my voice, how long would you wait before you'd call someone?

What about my voice? What about my eyes? Why do you want to break it down, disassemble it, it's creeping me the hell out. I hear soft, work sounds - scrabbling, urgent noises - efficient grunts and muttered curses. The sky is the color of a clay eraser.

The scraping, I can feel it in my skull. God, what a sound - a million hairs bristle at the afrontery. Which my blog doesn't seem to think is a word. I'm pretty sure it is. Just as I'm pretty sure that the clay will reform itself, the sun will shine, young lovers will stroll with arms entwined. That's something I can get behind.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. Happy Friday!

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Eulogy for Cat

I woke up this morning at five. That's the time my cat usually comes in to request breakfast, only this morning I woke up because he didn't come. I am currently sitting on the couch with my laptop - this is nothing unusual. I wake up and write every day. Usually, however, I have company - my cat sits right beside me all day long. That was the way things used to be. That all changed yesterday.

I grew up in a Navy family. We moved a lot, and I never had a pet. Sure, we had a goldfish for a few days. Hamsters for a brief time. I always wanted a dog, but I was always denied. Which, in hindsight, makes a lot of sense. Sort of.

When I was twenty years old, I lived in a punk house in the Mission district of San Francisco. It was a great old building that had been left to decay. We lived with eight people in a three room flat with a picture of Prince in a g-string on the front door. I was going out with a girl at the time and she moved in with me. We were in love. We were also battling some serious demons, though we didn't realize it at the time.

My girlfriend grew up with cats. She suggested we get a kitten. I don't remember being all that excited about it, but she was excited, and I certainly didn't hate the idea. I craved some kind of "settled" existence, and I was not in the right frame of mind to realize that being an addict and living with an addict made the decision to adopt a cat kind of bizarre.

I looked through the paper until I saw an ad for free kittens. I called a nice woman and we were shaking hands less than an hour later. The woman was friendly. Older (I have no idea now whether that means she was forty or sixty). There was a pile of kittens in her garden. Half were all white. Half were black and white. None were moving.

I walked over toward the pile and, immediately, one of the little black and white kittens stood up like he had been called to duty, walked over to me and put his paws as high up on my leg as he could. Something changed in my heart that day. I didn't realize it at the time. At the time, I thought, "I guess we'll take this one."

Kittens are one of my favorite things. If you can find anything unlikeable about a kitten, there is something seriously wrong with you. We went back to the house and everyone was stoked on the new kitten. We played the rest of the day. When it was time to go to bed, I lay down, and the kitten immediately plopped down onto my chest and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning to a tiny rough tongue licking my face. We decided to name him Catamaphone (which will make sense to Simpsons fans), but we called him Cat for short.

I think it is fair to say that, from the beginning, Cat was my cat. He liked my girlfriend and they were cute together. He played with my friends. But he slept on my chest. He followed me around like a puppy. I was fascinated and in love in a whole new way. We took him to the SPCA to get fixed. They had a deal where they would give you five bucks if you got your cat fixed. I donated the five dollars although I really could have used it. They were looking after my cat, after all.

Cat didn't leave my room much. I loved my roommates, and I didn't mind having a different band sleeping in the living room all the time, but I didn't trust them to be as vigilant as I was. Cat was hell on wheels, and he broke for the door every time it opened. He was fast as hell. I think if I had let him out, he would have come right back, but when you live at 24th and Mission, you have some reservations about leaving a tiny, cute animal to defend itself. There are some tough cats in the Mission.

Time passed, the house changed, and my girlfriend and I moved to a tiny apartment with Cat. We were happy for a while, and then things started to go downhill. Honestly, I don't remember whose fault it was. Which probably means we shared in the petty stupidity that led to our breakup. Regardless, we broke up. In one of the worst ways I can imagine.

A few days before my last semester of college, my girlfriend didn't come home until like six in the morning - several days running. We didn't speak of it. I was mad, but I didn't want to know what she'd been doing. I left for the first day of my last semester with the same words I used every time I left the house: "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." When I came home all the locks on the apartment had been changed.

This would seem normal if I were an angry, abusive guy. Or a thief. I'm not. And I never have been. I get angry, but not at people I love. And if I do, it's more of a sadness. I remember trying every key I had, even though I knew - it was incomprehensible to me. I was pissed. My cat was inside the apartment.

I called my girlfriend and told her that the door was going to be opened whether she came home and opened it or the cops did. She came and opened the door. I said I was leaving. She said she'd pack my stuff up. I said one thing and I remember it like it was thirty seconds ago. I said: "If you think I'm not taking Cat with me right now, you're out of your mind." She nodded: "I know." I remember being glad that she didn't fight for Cat. It made it much easier to hate her as opposed to missing her. I called my friend Josh who went to Stanford and lived in East Palo Alto - the murder capital of the US at the time. I went and stayed with him. I rented an apartment in the same complex. I couldn't afford the City on my own, and I, literally, did not have the strength to even think about apartment hunting. So, I moved to EPA.

I stopped doing hard drugs because Cat didn't like it when I was spun, but my drinking hobby became a drinking obsession. I drank Albertson's brand bourbon. $7 a fifth. I probably went through four or five on an average week. I worked, I went to school, I drank as much as I could, and I read everything John D. MacDonald ever wrote. I was grasping at straws, and I'm not sure if I would have made it had it not been for Cat. I loved bourbon. I love John D. MacDonald. But they didn't need me. Cat needed me, and the responsibility of taking care of him saved me. As did the fact that he was there for me. Always.

A lot of animals do amazing things, and everyone thinks their pet is special, but Cat was something extra special. When I was sad, he knew it and would not leave my side. When I was sick, he slept with me. He didn't even demand food. He put me first. That was a new experience for me. Later, when I was married, my wife would tell me that every day about ten minutes before I came home, Cat would go and stand vigil by the door. Waiting for me.

Allow me to break the narrative for a moment. My cat played fetch. I would sit for hours and throw sparkle balls and he'd either catch them in mid-air or bat them around a little before trotting over with the ball in his mouth and dropping it at my feet. He came when I called. He was my best friend. I say this because I know there are folks who don't think you can have a meaningful relationship with a pet. And there are a lot of folks who don't like cats because they're not dogs. I didn't expect to adopt a cat who played fetch, obeyed voice commands, or was completely devoted to me. Cats were supposed to be aloof ... like I'd always tried to be.

Back to the story.

Things were hard, as I said. But, no matter what, I had to be able to feed Cat. I had to clean his litter box. I had something to take care of. He needed me. I didn't think I was worthy of being cared for. Cat disagreed. And there was no doubt in my mind that he deserved the best of everything. He ate better than me. I built a track around the wall of my 'bunker' ... er, studio ... and he'd run and jump and amaze me. The only thing that made me happy was Cat, bourbon, and John D. MacDonald. You can't snuggle with booze or dead writers, though.

I'd always been a pretty high-functioning drunk, so I didn't miss work, I finished school and even made the Dean's List. And I met a girl. And I reconnected with my best friend, Pat. We soon moved in together (me and Pat), and I was happy. We didn't have much, but we had guitars and a four track and I had a sweet girlfriend. And, most importantly, I had Cat. And he had a bigger apartment to run around in.

This girlfriend lasted about as long as the one who'd locked me out. Around two years. The major difference was that we parted as friends, crying, hugging, knowing we loved each other but were not right for each other. I think it hurt worse that way.

Pat and I moved to a new apartment, close to my first home in the Mission. We both worked. When we weren't working we read, played music, wrote a lot of songs about heartache, and spilled a lot of whiskey on our four track. The best songs I've ever written were written during this time. And Cat sat quietly and listened to us play.

Cat was the only true constant in my life. When I sat down, he sat on my lap. When I was in the shower, he waited outside the door. When I went to sleep, he curled up beside me. Once I was asleep, he'd take his night time prowls around the apartment, but he was always back when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes he didn't even ask for food.

And then I met Karen, the woman I would end up marrying. The first time she came to my house, we sat down and Cat ran over and climbed up on me, licking my chin for all he was worth. Karen thought it was cute. She was a cat person. Had she not been, we would not be married. But she was. She was wonderful with cats. Cat absolutely adored her. She gave him face massages and knew special tricks I didn't know. We were happy.

After a decent amount of time, we moved in together. Later, I would pop the question and we would marry. We're still married. We have two daughters. Until yesterday, we also had Cat.

When my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, I wondered how Cat would react. He was a thirteen pound Tom cat. I was about to have a baby that would weigh less and come un-equipped with claws and sharp teeth. I wasn't worried. Cat had never used his claws or his sharp teeth on anyone. Ok, I was a little worried. I needn't have been.

About a month before my daughter came, Cat began to lick and 'scent mark' all the things we had gotten for the baby. Crib, bouncy chair, toys. It was curious. Was he marking his territory? Was he helping us prepare? Other people worried. I didn't. Much.

When we brought my baby girl home, Cat kept a respectful distance without any encouragement. He was not angry. He was not jealous. He seemed happy for us. And he did not come within five feet of our daughter. Until she weighed thirteen pounds. That sounds crazy, but it's true. As soon as they were the same size, they became fast friends. My daughter slept in our bed, and, as she began to recognize the world around her, she began to really appreciate the cat she would later refer to as her 'big brother' - I would wager you'd have a hard time finding a better big brother.

Every morning, my daughter would wake up and grab Cat's tail. Then, she would rub it vigorously on her nose. She followed Cat around the apartment. She hugged him and dragged him to the ground. She tried to ride him like a horse. For a week or so, I worried that Cat was caught in a living hell. Then I noticed that he never left. He'd simply move away and wait to be tackled again. And he never once made an aggressive move toward the tiny child pulling on his ears. He was clearly enjoying himself. And my daughter was thrilled.

Years began to pass quickly. And each year took a little bit of Cat with it. Soon, he was eleven pounds. His demeanor did not change, but he became easier to pick up. He still chased sparkle balls. He still came running when he heard his name (I think he thought his name was psst psst, but he answered to Cat, too). When my second daughter was born, he did the same thing. Wouldn't come near her until they were the same size. Then, the exact same thing happened. Right down to the morning nose tickles with Cat's tail. Cat had another tiny friend. A more aggressive friend, but it was by nature - both my girls loved Cat.

As they tend to do, the years were catching up with Cat. Soon, he stopped chasing sparkle balls except for rare occasions. He slept more. His days consisted of napping beside me when I wrote and playing with the girls. He started sleeping more at night.

I was always good about taking Cat to the vet. He got a respiratory infection after being boarded that almost killed him (and me). I gave him antibiotics. He got better. Then the vet trips became more and more depressing. Bad teeth. He had some removed. His kidneys were failing. The last trip to the vet (before yesterday) was about a year and a half ago. They said he had a year left. He weighed seven pounds.

For the last several months, Cat could not eat solid food. We mixed cat food with baby food and when that was too much, we gave him straight baby food. We debated taking him to the vet, but I thought the trip would kill him.

Then, it was no longer a choice.

Two nights ago, I was reading before bed. My wife came in and told me to come see Cat. My throat closed and my heart sank. That's a cliche, but I felt it sink. I had been dreading this moment. I could read it on my wife's face.

Cat was unable to walk without stumbling. My wife had made an appointment with the vet for later in the week (the writing was on the wall, even if I didn't want to read it), but it was clear he was not going to make that appointment. My wife called the vet as soon as they opened. I found Cat hiding under the shelves in our "junk room," which he had claimed as his sanctuary. He was barely responsive. There was blood crusted on his nose and mouth. I have never felt such acute physical pain from an emotional response - and I don't know that I've ever been so scared.

When we got to the vet, Cat weighed in at six pounds. His bones poked out. His blood pressure was low. The vet, very kindly, told us that he could admit Cat to the hospital and buy him a few more weeks or months, but he would also support euthanizing him. As strange as it may sound, being "given permission" to euthanize Cat was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. When I can do it, I will go thank that kind vet.

I'm a pretty sensitive guy, and I'm not afraid of crying. I don't, however, like to cry in front of people I don't know. That didn't matter. My wife was trying not to cry. I didn't even try. I stood, covered in cat piss, bawling so hard I thought I might hyperventilate while the doctor asked me if I'd like Cat to be cremated or buried. Or if I'd like to take him with me. I tried to speak. I signed the paper.

Karen and my youngest went to the waiting room. My oldest was at school. I went back to a room that looked like a miniaturized version of every grandmother's living room. Soon, the doctor came in and put a pink towel on my lap. Then, he lay Cat on the towel. Cat had an IV in his shaved leg, and he had just been given the anesthetic. The doctor told me I had a few minutes and then Cat would sleep and he would be back.

What do you say? Especially when you're gasping and crying so hard you'd probably vomit if you had the strength. I thanked Cat for being the most loyal friend I've ever had. I thanked him for taking care of me and for letting me take care of him. I thanked him for loving my wife and my girls and being so sweet to them. His eyes were getting heavy and I said, "Psst psst." He looked up and I said: "I love you, Cat. I'll hold down the fort for you. Come back soon ... somehow ... if you can. And now just sleep. Just go to sleep and dream." I kissed the top of his head. You will never convince me that he didn't look grateful. His gratitude made it hurt even more. But it will help someday.

The vet came back in and made two injections into the IV. Thirty seconds later, Cat was gone. His body was there, but there was a very real sense that he was gone. The body was merely an empty vessel now. I stood up, tried to comport myself, gave up quickly and went out to the waiting room. I was sobbing. I later asked my wife how big of a wreck I'd looked like. She said I looked like someone who had just lost their best friend. Sounds about right. The nurses murmured their condolences. I shook the doctor's hand. Then, I shook, my whole body, for a long time.

I have always feared Cat's death, partly because he played such a huge role in my life, but partly because I'm not sure if I'd have a life if it wasn't for Cat. As I said, during periods of my life where I couldn't muster the courage to take care of myself (and didn't very well), I refused to shirk my obligations to Cat. I had to get out of bed. I had to make money to buy cat food. I had to be there for Cat because I knew he would do the same for me. And I promised him many times that, no matter how hard it would be, when it was time to step up and tell a man it was OK with me if he killed my cat, that I would do it. For him. And I did.

Yesterday, I did very little other than alternately cry and stare off into space. I hugged my family a lot. I winced when I saw Cat's bed. His food bowl. I'd realize that I'd never be sitting in a room and have Cat come in huffy that I'd snuck off and left him in bed. He was never mad. He just relocated his nap.

One of the realizations I had yesterday makes me feel strange. Over the years I have fought many battles against drugs and alcohol. And I quit them all. But I could never fully quit drinking. Three days ago, I drank too much at a party and had a come to Jesus talk with my wife. I have never been a mean or an angry drunk. And recently, I haven't even been drinking all that much, but the party made me realize (again) that when I take a sip of alcohol, I am taking a serious gamble. I might drink two beers and wake up feeling a little groggy. I might wake up with no memory of the night before. So, enough was enough. I wrote up a contract. If I ever drink again, my wife gets to sell my pocketknife collection (it's quite a collection) and my motorcycle. And I can never have a motorcycle ever again.

So, it occurred to me yesterday that, possibly, the Cat that kept me alive when I didn't care ... the Cat that spent his whole life loving me and putting me above everyone and everything else (including himself) ... maybe that Cat was finally satisfied that I'd be okay. And maybe he was smart enough to know that I would never break the vow if he checked out. He had been sick for a long time. Maybe it's a coincidence. I don't know. I don't think so, and I don't really care what anyone else thinks. I think Cat spent seventeen years looking out for me and, when he was confident that I would persevere on my own, he allowed himself to end the pain. He reached out to me and my wife and you could just tell that he needed it to be over.

What will I do now? Well, you can call it stupid or silly or whatever you want, but I am going to try and live the rest of my life by the example Cat set. He was never angry, never petty, never greedy. He was kind, loving, generous, and forgiving (not some of the time, ALL the time).

I don't believe in cat heaven. I don't believe in people heaven. I wish I did. I believe that Cat stopped being Cat the moment his heart stopped. My heart stopped for a second, too, but it kept beating.

My oldest daughter has never dealt with death before. She spent part of yesterday walking around with a stuffed cat and making meowing sounds (she's always done a really good Cat impression) until I asked her, in tears, to play with another toy. She asked if we could get a hamster now. Or another cat. It was like being stabbed in the heart. But she didn't mean me any harm. She was dealing with it in her way. And Cat would have understood that better than anyone.

Will I ever have another Cat? I don't know. If I do, it won't be for a long time. And if I do, that cat will have some pretty big shoes to fill. I know it won't be Cat, but someday I might be able to accept that I can love another furry thing.

Some people will probably find it weird that I wrote this. I understand. I had two reasons. One, when I was younger and didn't have any experience with domesticated animals, someone would tearfully tell me they put their dog or cat down and I'd say I was sorry while thinking, "Wow. It was only a dog/cat." I see now how stupid that was. It's hard to miss anyone you love when they die. It's damn near impossible when the loved one never did anything but fill your house, heart, and life with love and joy. Two, I have to write things out. I can't talk things well, but I can't keep it inside me or it will fester.

It still doesn't seem real. I took my best friend to the vet and didn't bring him home. Every time I leave my apartment and don't say, "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." will be a twinge in my heart. Maybe for the rest of my life.

And I write this because, despite the fact that I am currently typing ten words a minute through tears, I owe Cat a decent send off. I need people to know. Even if it's only six people. I need to tell the story. Hell, I'm a writer. If I was a sculptor, I'd be shopping for slabs of marble online. I'm not. My sculptures are made out of words. Usually, they are made out of pretty words that I care about very much. This is the first thing I've written in a long time where the words don't matter. I could give a damn about the typos because it all comes down to this:

It hurts. It hurts like hell, and I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. But I wouldn't trade the last seventeen years of my life for anything, either. Cat is gone, but he does live on in our hearts. In pictures. In videos. In anecdotes - the only time Cat ever hurt me was because I came home and he was covered in gel. I found one of those blue liquid-filled eye masks ripped open. I don't know what they make that gel out of. So, I immediately stripped, grabbed cat, and stepped into the shower. Water might have been the only thing Cat hated. His claws tore me up pretty bad, but he was scared and trying to hold onto me. And he didn't stop licking my face the whole time I shampooed him, rinsed him, dried him. And when were we done, I put my pants back on and he sat on my lap looking at me with golden eyes like I was the best thing in the world.

I held onto him for as long as I could.

Catamaphone Mader. 1998-2014. RIP, buddy. We'll never forget.

Friday, September 12, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces and link back here, that would be lovely. 

It looks so high when you're at the bottom, gathering courage and staring into the sun-soaked boughs. You smell pine sap, feel it sticky on your fingers. The fear is part of the charge. Adrenaline. You deserve to be afraid, don't you?

And when you get up there? Man. Like the whole world is tiny now, and you're big as all creation - tall as a Florida pine. So, you climb. The climbing is methodical - you test the strength of branches, move slowly. It's a long, long fall. You remember.

At the top you just hug that thing because there's a good breeze and you're swaying. But you're up with the birds now, and that's the important thing. High enough that all you can hear is wind. All you can smell is the smell of hot pine. If you close your eyes tight enough, the tears can't come out. And if you let the sway take you, you can almost believe you don't exist at all.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. I love Friday.

It's fun to look back at past Fridays (FYI) SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY! :)

Thursday, September 11, 2014


It would be unfair to say that he was always this way. He wasn't. He was always headed toward this inevitability, but there was hope. He was sanguine. There were days when he would stare off into space for hours, then, suddenly, he was there. Just talking about normal stuff. Asking questions. Almost like he knew what was happening but was afraid to ask.

It was a gradual descent. That's fair to say. The moments of clarity became a rarity. I'd come running and devour every word. Tell me. Tell Mommy all about it. He'd cry sometimes. He didn't understand, but it was not his job to understand. He felt powerless, but he was powerless. Strange, how quickly sweet things turn sour.

Sometimes I think back to when it all started. He was happy then, and he worshipped me. I was happy, too, happy to be everything he needed me to be. Even if he didn't know what he needed. I did. 

I hear him at night sometimes, but there is no talking to him once I've given him his meds. But I hear him. Mommy! Help! Sometimes, I'm angry. Usually, I smile because I know that he needs me more than he has ever needed anyone.

It's gotten so bad now that he needs to be restrained at all times. He is strong physically, but growing weaker mentally. Soon, I will be able to get the straightjacket on, and we won't use the cage anymore. I don't feel good about the cage. 

He'll keep for the day. I have other clients to see. Clients that didn't disappoint me. The agreement was clear. There were no safe words. If he couldn't see what was coming, whose fault is that? He wanted Mommy to be mean to him. He is just beginning to understand what 'mean' means.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014


The sun is just beginning to push away the wash of grey - from slate, to a kind of oppressive blue - the sun will be here soon. There is a raven on the wires. He is loud and petulant, tired of being grouped with silly animals like hummingbirds and ostriches. He isn't fucking around, this raven, he will find his feast and he will tell no one. He keeps his cards close to his chest. Smart bird. I am not like a raven. I am like a long-legged hummingbird that cannot fly.

I woke with a kind of terror in my throat. Like a torrent of words might rush out. Or they might get stuck and never come out. I closed my eyes and tried to find my way back into sleep. I was denied. The bouncer was pretty cute, though.

I gotta do some things today, and I don't really want to do any of them. I would like to climb a beanstalk. I would like to lay in the grass atop a hill while the wind tickles my eyelashes. I'd like to be that raven, giving the eye to passersby, smiling a wicked smile because I know where the carcass is hidden.

Friday, September 5, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

You can write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

You slake that thirst, I'll take your worst. But first. Let's spread this out on the table, nice even layer, fancy label, make sure everything is on the up and up. You ain't got aces in your socks, right Ace? Me? I don't wear socks. Makes me feel like my ankles are putting on airs. I ain't about to brag about my ankles. 

Squirm and pull your body away from it, the air is thick with syrup and bullshit. I don't acknowledge it. That's a damn lie, and I know it. I'm not being honest. That's not fair - who am I kidding, that's more than fair. 

Smell the sulphur on the wind, the stabs of rich, meat smoke. Listen to the babble of conversation until it streams over you, coating you in a blanket of white noise. Run your hands down your face, feel it. Look up into the sky until the stars blur into one brilliant expanse of white, and you begin to rise.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day, so I won't be able to be around as much, but rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. 

It's fun to look back at past Fridays (FYI) SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY! :)

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Time Does Not Fly

They fall like dry leaves, these tufts of paper, subject to the slightest puffs - he raggles another jagged piece out of the wall he is building. It is hard work, and he is tired. Soft hands cover his face. God, it's so dark.

He wasn't always this way. He had never planned to be old and, now, gray hair and the noises he makes involuntarily, and there is so much time. Everyone says it like it's a blessing. Some golden reward for a life lived, if not lived well. Now, you have so much time! It's true, but time for what? Time to sit in an empty apartment tearing cocktail napkins into ribbons? Time to check the clock and think: Holy shit. It's not even noon!

There is a sweet, rotten light sneaking through the gaps in the curtain, the gaps in the wall. Even the sun is corrupted, covered in gray misery, plumes of smoke and all manner of bullshit. At least I've still got plenty of time to enjoy it. He tries to smile.

It is at times like this that he wonders if anything could have changed the trajectory. He could have had kids. He could have worked harder. He could have chucked it all long ago and lived like a peasant, chasing enlightenment.

We are all victims of our choices.

There is a sound in the apartment. There are times when he can almost convince himself that he is going crazy. Finally. But the noise is there. It is the noise of desperation. Some gnawing, scrabbling something. He tries to ignore it or enjoy its company. Failing at both.

He has become a man who names the birds outside his window - he does not know if this is some form of penance or something to be proud of. There is so much he does not know. And folks lay it on him. You have all the time in the world, now! So, what? He should start learning about steam engines or stop eating gluten or do yoga in a sauna? People say these things to him and he blinks like a man who has spent the day in a mine. And they look at him with sad, long faces while he thinks of violence.

There is a scrap of paper taped to the bathroom mirror. It is the first thing he sees every morning. He does not remember when it arrived there. It is written in his handwriting, though, so he reads it.

It says:


He reads this every morning and nods resolutely. The woman who sells him coffee must shave her beard. The men climbing poles will walk the power lines, one after another, crossing the city in grid-flash daring. The girly show is everywhere, but they never show it all, no matter what the barker says.

He looks at the clock and taps his fingernails on the table and charts the pain that starts in his left temple and goes all the way down his back, to his thighs - hot, sharp pain. This is it. This is everything and everything is nothing. 

Outside, the birds sing and he resists the urge to throw crumbs out the window, cooing the little names he has created, the lives he has created. He knows that if he were gone tomorrow, it would be a blip in their recognition, if that. And just last week he woke to a goldfinch on his steps and he had cried the rest of the day, mourning beauty lost. Cursing the neighbor's cat.

It is time to do something with all this time, but what? He wishes he could donate it. Give it to some young go-getter with plans and a glint in his eye. Let him use the time. Maybe he could do something with it.

Time passes. It may pass slow, but it does pass. He can't stop it. He can't speed it up and he can't slow it down no matter how it feels or what his third grade teacher said so many years ago.

Time does not fly. Not for him.