My clients don’t talk, though we communicate just fine. I read body language, posture and blinking eyes. I interpret moods, stretches and the consumption and digestion of food. It’s all in a day’s work, cat-sitting in New York City. Continued in Crixeo
This is a poem I wrote for my brother Glen, who passed away from cancer in October 2005.
Read the poem in Alliterati Issue 4
I’m wearing my dead brother’s shirt. I can’t remember ever seeing him wear it, but it was his, and now it’s mine. If you asked me what I get out of wearing this shirt, I’m not sure I could answer you. It’s just a shirt. It doesn’t hold anything that’s left of him: all that’s left of him are my memories, my family’s memories. Maybe that’s what ghosts are made of: memories and empty clothes and an over-active imagination. The funny thing about death is–and I mean funny-strange, not funny-ha-ha–the funny thing is that everyone always thinks about loss when they think about death. I used to think the same way too. Death means the loss of someone you love, and it’s something horrible, irrevocable and final, but there’s more. You never hear people talk about the things left behind, and I’m not talking about ghosts, unless that’s what you call t-shirts and memories and regret. Some things just stick around, long after the loss, and they haunt you.
When I was little, my favorite book was The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum. We had this ratty orange paperback version — nothing special — I’m not even sure if it had the illustrations in it. I must have read that book 5 or 6 times myself during my childhood, and my sisters had all read it too. Its popularity in our household was clearly evident: my sister Jenny and I had drawn pictures on the blank pages at the beginning and end of the book, and the spine had been reinforced several times with masking tape.
Dear Young Dude,
I’m sorry I let you cut in front of me at the store. You see, I noticed you only had a can of soda in your hand, and I knew that my overladen basket of groceries would take a while to scan and bag. Also, I had my eye on that giant can of Diet Red Bull in the case near the register, and I thought that letting you go in front of me would give me time to get some of that delicious highly-caffeinated goodness. So I waved you ahead of me, only half noticing how you nervously avoided my eyes as you muttered your thanks.
If I had a leopard
I’d take him for walks
In the park.
And no one would pester
Or bother or bug me
And I would be happy
As free as could be;
I’d be proud.
For I would have no one,
Not no one to fear …
Except my leopard.
— Jessica Mannion, appx. 1990
A goofy little brain-twister poem I wrote …
What I am is here to be;
What I be is who I am,
And am is I — for where I be
Depends not on yourself, but me.
It’s hard not to like firemen. Really: the job of firemen has been romanticized for probably as long as they’ve been driving around in those big, giant, shiny red trucks. They have all the gadgets and muscles of a policeman, without the billy-clubs and pepper-spray: what’s not to love? But if you look past the rubber-suited, fire-hose-totin’ glamour, firemen really have kind of crappy jobs. Think about it, they’re either hanging around the firehouse for endless hours, playing cards, listening to music, maybe lifting weights … shirtless … perhaps taking long, hot saunas with other muscular firemen, roughly rubbing scented oil into each other’s rippling pectorals … *ahem* … sorry, got off track. Where was I?
Oh yes, talking about how lame the job of being a fireman must really be. Either they’re waiting around for a really terrible fire to happen, or they’re putting out a really terrible fire, which boils down to: really boring, or really depressing. I imagine the greatest perk for a fireman must be saving things. Sometimes they get to save a home, sometimes they save people, and sometimes they even save people’s pets.
Gather ’round, my children, and I shall tell you a tale to make your hair turn white, your bowels tremble, and set your toenails ablaze.
I used to have quite a second career centered around house-sitting, and I have a lot of very boring stories about it. Lots and lots of boring stories. On the flip side of that coin, I have a few interesting stories — or at least less stultifyingly boring — and now that I have you totally confused, I shall begin.
Once upon a time, a not-so-very-long time ago, there lived a fairy princess who was the princess of SPRING!! As you can imagine, she was the mostest beautifulest fairy princess ever and everyone loved her very much. Not only was she heartbreakingly beautiful in the way that only fairies can be, but she was also the kindest and the sweetest and the bestest of them all. EVER. Believe me; it is true. Also, in addition to her beautifulness and hottness and kindness and sweetness and such, she was the fairy in CHARGE of bringing spring , which–if you live in a cold, desolate place like Alaska–you know is a really mother-fucking important job.
So. Enter conflict: