Loss and a Cat Named Frisky

Last night, April 9th 2015

How do I write to comprehend what is happening to my cat? I have work to do, but I can’t leave her alone.

I’m as trapped as she is. We’ve known for a year there’s something wrong with that thyroid and little heart.

I keep glancing to make sure the fur is rising and falling with breath.

I’ve brought her water, but she won’t drink out of pride – or something less noble.

I rub behind her ear the way she likes, and she purrs, squeezing her eyes and almost smiling. Then she flicks her ear, typical cat.

She’s curled up on the floor, but not all the way like normal.

I’ve heard cats like to hide alone when they know they are going to die. So I’m not leaving. I can’t even read these words or breathe through my nose, but I’m not leaving her alone.

Dad’s asleep. Mom’s at work.

A big thunder clap made her eyes flair open. But she’s safe from outside – but I can’t save her from her inside.

I’ve had blasted awful thoughts about her big bag of food, kittens, vets, needles, fur, and a hole in the ground out back.

Then I kick myself because she’s right here with her paw tucked beside her chin & her tail is curled up.

I stroke the head again, & she turns her head, opening her paw like she does when she flips on her back to curve in a big arch

– but she stops –

wide eyed. She can’t do it.

— Friday, April 10th 2015

I remember how she used to chase me on the stairs. A sneak attack of needles in my legs.

She’d chase me through the house in a one-sided game of tag.

Every year we’d take a picture of her laying on my school work.

An annual tradition – that I will miss.

The liver. It did it.

And that blasted needle too.

While on the phone I gripped the metal can rack at work.

I’ve had a year to “prepare”.

You just can’t do that. I don’t care who tells you so.

I numbed over. Taking orders for hot dogs and scoops of frozen custard.

With a smile and a hello, I had to respond, “ok” when asked, “Hi, how are you?”

But not really “ok”.

I’m just going through the motions; $3.50 is your change.

Have a nice day,

And no, I can’t really have one too now.

The “feels” arise

When I see her clumps of hair stuck to the carpet.

That old melted bead thing

I made in 6th grade

Of her. Black and white, spotted,

With green eyes and a white tip on her tail.

I told her good-bye before work

But I thought it was, “See you later”.

But that’s how life

and death


How do you say good-bye

To someone who’s been in the family

For 14 years?

She was the smartest of the kittens,

the prettiest cat



Stanislavski and Wonderology

I am currently reading “An Actor Prepares” by Constantin (or Konstantin) Stanislavski for a college paper. On page 87, I came across a passage that illustrates the essence of Wonderology beautifully:

“How can we teach unobservant people to notice what nature and life are trying to show them? First of all they must be taught to look at, to listen to, and to hear what is beautiful. Such habits elevate their minds and arouse feelings which will leave deep traces in their emotion memories.

Nothing in life is more beautiful than nature, and it should be the object of constant observation. To begin with, take a little flower, or a petal from it, or a spider web, or a design made by frost on the window pane. Try to express in words what it is in these things that gives pleasure. Such an effort causes you to observe the object more closely, more effectively, in order to appreciate it and define its qualities.

And do not shun the darker side of nature. Look for it in marshes, in the slime of the sea, amid plagues of insects, and remember that hidden behind these phenomena there is beauty, just as in loveliness there is unloveliness. What is truly beautiful had nothing to fear from disfigurement. Indeed, disfigurement often emphasizes and sets off beauty in higher relief.” ~ Stanislavski

Stanislavski, Constantin. An Actor Prepares. New York: Theatre Arts, 1948. Print.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

His bones cracked

His skin ripped

His screams curdled

Blood. For me.

He cried for me.

He died for me

The pride of me.

Lies. Eyes. Mouth. Hands. Mind. Words. Lust. Hate. Jealousy. Judgement. Gluttony. Procrastination. Abuse. Abortion. Pouting. Whining. Taunting. Joking. Craving. Hoarding. Seething. Yelling. Sneering. Kicking. Screaming. Sniffing proud-nose-in-air. Adultery. Disobedience. Greed. Idolatry. Narcissism. Blasphemy. Laziness. Murder. Dishonor. Fornication. Pornography. Pride.

He took the pain

for my free reign.

I am bound

No more, why

Do I hang

On to what I

Should not.

My eyes, blind,

Can see right

Through myself

With a glass

From Him. The

Wine. The Bread.

Thorns stuck

Inside His head

Beaten in with

A stick. The

Sickness of sin

Turned Him in,

But did not read

Between the lines.

He wrote my story

With His glory

Intertwined with Mine.

I may thank Him before eating

My hamburger with cheese.

I’m a good person

“Thank you” & “Please.”

I never do cuss…

Out loud – but in my head.

I talk about Him…

Profaning His name.

I know I’m loved

So why not splurge?

Because with His

Blood the world purged.

Globular scarlet

Staining the ground,

Drowned out the

Sound of laughter from

Your lame pun.

His gravelly throat

Screamed, clouds covered

The sun. Blood, sweat, tears

All mingled in one.

Sweat through eyes

Blood through scalp

Tears through wounds.

Skin carved away

With 9 tails to

Roast on the spit

Of a Cross.

He wouldn’t stay

Up by Himself so they

Tacked Him up

Pinned Him down.

His palms splintered

With the wood.

They didn’t bother

To sharpen the nails,

Just tried to decide

Which end would

Drive faster through

Flesh into wood?

He thought of my


Your puns.

Her mouth.

He pondered them all.

“Forgive them,


They know not what

they do.”

He took the blame

Pain, blood, nails

Tails – 9 whips

With shattered shards

Of glass woven into

His back.

He died. Of pride.

Not His, but Mine.

I killed Him, but

He’s not dead.

He went through Hell

For us to tell

The rest of the story.

He didn’t stay away

Just for three days

Then He rose with

The sun. The Son.

He died for me,

Cried for me. The pride of

Me. Now lives.

How can I not give

What He asks of me?


The Wonderology of a One Year Old

Babysitting a one year old can be a harrowing experience, if you look at it the wrong way. My dear little cousin “J” is the easiest baby I’ve ever seen. She coos, she smiles, and she only cried once because she refused to take a nap.

Out of the many toys J’s mommy left, her favorite was the cap of her bottle.

What? You say. Her mom left her THAT for a toy?

Well, no. Mommy left many colorful plastic things that tempted the eyes with buttons that lit up and made noise (and what NOISE!).

But J didn’t like any of them best. She picked the cap of her bottle.

She also enjoyed her game of “empty-the-diaper-bag” and when she found the red packet of wet-wipes she squealed with glee!

She held it out eyeing the vibrant red packaging. Then she pulled it close and gave it a good lick! Oh, how good the packet tasted! Better than any of those gummy rings and keys!

That’s disgusting! You might say. Why would you let a one year old munch on a packet of wipes?

In all honesty, I think those wipes were just as sanitary as anything J was supposed to be teething on!

After all, what do you clean toys with?

Sanitary wipes.

Anyway, I decided to show J our air humidifier. It’s a futuristic looking thing with a funnel at the top where the water vapor puffs out. I turned it on and she stared at it.

On hands and knees she scurried over and gaped at the water vapor. She lifted a soft, miniature hand to try and catch the wisps of cloud.

She sat up beside the humidifier and jiggled the blue tank. Gurgling bubbles rose to the surface. She stared wide-eyed.

Screen Shot 2015-03-27 at 10.31.48 PM

“Ouh,” She said, in awe.

The humidifier kept her attention for five minutes.

5 whole minutes! Do you know how short the attention span of a one year old is?

I don’t either, you know why? Because it’s so short!

And yet, this little tike sat beside the air humidifier as contented and interested as one could be.

If she could talk, I’m sure she would have asked a million questions.

“What’s this? Why does it float? Why can’t I grab it? Why is it wet? Why does it disappear? How does this weird looking thing work? Can I have one?”

As I sat beside her and watched, I pondered Wonderology.

This one year old had it. She sat with wide wonder-filled eyes for five whole minutes.

She even found the wonder in a packet of sanitary wipes and the cap of her bottle!

She didn’t need a room full of colorful gizmos to keep her happy and interested. She found things to be interested in. And she was happy.

One Word ~ Salesman

Today’s prompt from Oneword was “Salesman”. I immediately thought of that one old Veggie Tales “Madame Blueberry” where the unsuspecting berry is swindled into buying many things she doesn’t need. I hope you enjoy my little poem I wrote in a minute:


You know you don’t need it,
but somehow you want it –
You know you shouldn’t,
but you do.
You know you will,
but say you won’t.
You did.
The salesman won.

The Young Artist in Lancaster

I caught a glimpse

of him

sitting, concentrated

on his late night


At a table


a lone

lamp, bending

with the student

over hard work.

Driving past


nooks and crannies,

the fleeting

image of

the artist

held miles

past that



like a work

of art himself.

For a moment

I joined

the magic

of the young

artist in Lancaster.

I wonder

his name?

I wonder

his work?

In the


of my eye

I didn’t catch

his work

just his


Did he know


driving past

could see him?

In his own

world of



and sorrow.

For a magical


I entered

his world.

The young

artist in