Fresh Each Year
After Easter, the sparrows all seem to be wearing new feather suits. And the robins strut taller & more red-shirted. I haven’t yet seen enough swallows up close to judge of this year’s clothing allowance. Still I say, with St. Francis, “Blessed be.” Actually St. F. said, “Cheap cheap cheap, gah, I love those damn birds.” And I say enjoy em now, I understand God don’t let em into heaven.
And that’s why there aren’t any cats there, or dogs…for what would they do? (no cheese, no mice.)
And that’s why I’m staying here. There are no humans I can’t do without but imagine a life without cats…could the h. race possibly have survived all those millennia with just dogs? If I had lived then, would have had 5 or 6 kids & lost my teeth…and be dead by now. And who wrote the Bible? Goat herds, that’s who. (Spirit of lion: puma/pneuma, receive my flesh & bones.)
Pastor?
“Pastor” means shepherd. I have no use for one. You don’t herd cats. In fact, herding cats is proverbial for any terminally frustrating & sure-to-fail undertaking. What do you do for cats? Feed them, admire them, caress them (if invited), never scold…
All we, like cats.
(all we, like cats.)
Have gone a –prowl.
\ (in 11 syllables)
Writing day. Good nor bad. Sunshine. OK.
15h Ave «B’s
What I Want to Explain
See, it’s open-ended. That’s the thing about human consciousness, aim, aspiration, whatever is the essence of human-ness.
Maybe open-endedness is the essence.
But that’s not what I want to explain.
I wonder how many other people out there are like me, given the # of other people, probably quite a few—not exactly like me, not least because I am (I think) refreshingly free of dogma.
I mean like me in being sick of the human race& its many egregious (& destructive) follies. Up to here with the excesses of the clever biped’s topless-towering greed & heedlessness.
Too clever by half to be so stupid.
I mean sick enough to wish us removed. Pruned back? No removed, root & branch. Spirit of Kali.
Of course I want to see it. Of course I want not to suffer. But, knowing us (the clever greedy heedless beings), it will be More of the Same: the Four Horsemen, until the wildcard is played. And then—it may go like a blow-torched ant-pile.
Yes, I am full of malice. No, I don’t rationalize it, except to say that there are too many for a girl like me. Won’t act on it either, (don’t think, unless it’s to take the Shiva short-cut). But I understand. Where are the Space Invaders when we need Them?
Thrush
I ask the little blond HIV guy next door if he knows thrush when he sees it & stick my tongue out for him. “Yup, that’s it,” he says. After I tell Mom about my concerns, how thrush can be a sign of diabetes, she says, “It doesn’t run on the female side of the family,” clearly incensed that I would even suggest such a possibility. “OK, Mom,” I say. I intend to call Country Doctor tomorrow.
*
Felt bad this morning. Dreamed about some woman I didn’t want visiting (?) & something about Jana & Irene & a book—but whose?
I finished the Waugh biog.—he wanted to die—& the sun came out. I figure to clean out my dirty mouth (shoulda known it would come to this) & …fly to the moon on gossamer wings? Yeah, or set the controls for the heart of the sun.
Mouth Mystery
Even the P.A. at Country Doctor thought it was thrush when he looked at it, but it didn’t scrape off properly & under the microscope—it wasn’t. So I have the Nameless Tongue Crud, 2º to xerostomia, R/O Sjögren’s (I tried to get the P.A. [Bob] to write that down, but Health Care Profs. hate to be dictated to). So it’s good, I don’t have diabetes, probably. But what I have, nobody knows. The white stuff is almost but not quite gone. I walked over to & back from the clinic on a perfect early summer day & the iris seemed to preen for my delectation. And then I got home & everything was the same. No phone, no mail, & I’d spent $10 to find out I have a Bad Mouth—which I already knew. And I hate my apartment too.
So I paged through my papers from “Dave” & only with a bit of self-control did I stay & even run my eye over them. And then the computer ate my print job. So, it’s another day & I still don’t have a…plan. Not a good one anyway. I eat chocolate cake. My fall-back plan.
My Other Fall-Back Plan
is to sit on the rail facing the road & then to just fall-backward looking up at the sky. No, the railing of a Bridge, a high one.
But why? I want to talk about the
New Library
Today the new Rem K. Tilt-A-Screen Library opened & I went down late (to avoid the speeches) & joined a crowd, 90% white, 90% who’ll probably never enter the library again –and I stumbled along in lines & couldn’t see for the bodies, except that ceilings are high & there are lotsa angles. I think it could be half as complex & just as good a “public space.” Boy, it is big though. Big N Fancy. Will there be places for the bums to sleep? Places for flashers to lurk in the spiral stacks? Oh yes. 400 computers, something like that--& I didn’t even go on the red floor. However, I did get 5 of my long-requested books & got out in an hour. I lost my souvenir on the way home, a paper model, and don’t care.
I look forward to going back. Not this week. I ought to get a job there…
Sunny Sunday. On we go.
Space in My Head (no, Rooms…)
Like the one in SFGH where I worked doing something (but what?) horribly boring with gay blond Roger who told me he thought ♀/feminist novels were all the same. And the guy Dave who had been a billing clerk for 12 years & appreciated the (Weird Al? Dr. Demento?) song “One Ton Tomato.” But where was it? Ob/Gyn? There was a window looking west? And who was the Yuppie Bitch—Jane somebody? And an Asian woman, middle-aged. I’ve dreamed about that place. But I don’t know when I worked there, what I was doing—besides chafing & chaffing & talking art with Roger. (“Well, I think queer novels are all the same.”—only I didn’t say any such, because there weren’t any of them yet.) Did he know Jan or the other radical Ψ commune people? Did he get AIDs? Around 1980? Late-ish 1980 is about when AIDs began. For me.
*
Across
Downburst. Cloudpour
The end of May. Rained hard for 2-3 hours & nothing happened to me. No mail. No email. No #s. And the computer f**ked up at the library. I did see a crow chase a gull away from something edible. I have nothing good (enough) to read, so I should go downtown to library tomorrow. No job (no want!). Little (tiny) hope. I’ve been typing up journal entries about Dad & it’s too much like living through it again. But I’m almost done—don’t know if urge to write about this will survive the typing.
B’way «Bux
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