The Hunter, Hobbes

Hobbes, my five year old silver and white tabby, has always been an indoor cat. I rescued him from the pound at one and nursed him back from kennel cough. Being the protective parent I am, I always wanted him within sight or ear-shot of his red belled collar. It was never a mystery to me if he wanted to go outside but when he would. Who knows what goes on our there in the ‘wild’ or where he might wander. With the bugs and all out there I thought it best he stay indoors. Not to mention the dramatically increased risk there would be of some neighborhood indiscretion. But he made his intentions quite clear as he spent most days perched at the windowsill and still others delivering a ten-minute protest at the door.

 But I never had him want for anything. From the beginning he had a basket full of toys, two litters boxes and three water bowls to choose from. I brushed him once a day and gave him loads of love and attention. We had morning play and learn sessions replete with treats even when he didn’t sit or talk - an ‘A’ for effort and a treat for trying. He seemed to have everything he needed but still, whining protests and staring hours out the window abounded. Perhaps, I worried, he was born to be an outside cat.

By three he had mostly adjusted to the indoor life and saved his energy for crying only on the clearest of days. The staring waned only a bit and he added to his routine by darting from window to window, following that very thing he’d been watching for so long. I called it his ‘perimeter prowl’ as he covered every edge of the house daily. On most days in North Carolina, when the sun shines brightly in, Hobbes tracked it through the house and basked in its glory and in every windowed room from sunrise to sunset. On those rare days when I decided to enjoy the same sun outside, my heart would ache at the sight of him looking on longingly. One warm spring day I gave into his beady eyes and persistent cry. I walked outside carrying Hobbes to allow him the pleasure of his long-sought outside air. I even put his paws in the grass. I never let go. Not once. Sure, he had his proper treatment for fleas and worms and was all up to date on his shots, but why risk it. Yet each time I took him to experience the outdoors and upon entering, he only wanted more. More crying, more begging, more staring longingly. The greedy little thing had the life every cat dreamt of and it was unsettling to watch him despondent.

Not long after Hobbes turned four an usual thing happened. I came home one night after a long day away and found a dead mouse on the carpet of my bedroom floor. Hobbes stood proudly behind it. After the anxiety of having a mouse in my house ripped through my body, I moved close to be sure it was dead. It was. As I turned to go for the dustpan in the kitchen, Hobbes flashed out in front of me and cut me off in the hallway. He meowed and weaved around my legs tripping me up until I stopped. He led me back to the mouse and went behind it again. He lay down with it just under his white furry chin and between his front paws and looked up at me. “Yes, I see Hobbes. You killed a mouse. Nice going,” I said. He replied with a long howling meow. As I turned to try again for the dustpan, the situation repeated itself exactly. He cut me off. I turned. He led. I followed. He bragged. Finally, I realized he wasn’t going to let me go anywhere until I showed him some real appreciation – which I did. Words of encouragement, gratitude for cleaning this place up, dozens of back strokes and head scratches. He soaked it all up and still wasn’t satisfied.

After that stalking his mood lifted. He was adamant about either going outside or using my home as his hunting grounds. Each night he presented me with a new gift. Spiders, bugs, that paperclip I dropped between the dresser and the wall. And each time he was given ample attention for his hunting efforts. I was creating a monster. The night the cockroach hit the floor I decided I should do something (besides admit I needed to call an exterminator). Coincidentally, the next evening Hobbes accidentally escaped outside. Four hours he cruised the pine-straw drag. When I found him outside, he was waiting for me, collar gone and a dead bird at his feet. I imagine that after his initial steps with a jingle at each one, Hobbes thought it decidedly un-catlike to wear a bell while hunting. So he removed it to maintain optimum stealth mode activity. After I checked him for ticks I gave him his due credit but begged him to stay inside, as “it’s dangerous out there”. He strutted off and I knew he would never return to the indoor life. He had found his element and was a happier, more fulfilled kitty thereafter. So unless it’s raining, Hobbes hunts from 7:00 to 8:30 and always returns with an offering. His final count of things hunted so far is eight birds, twelve mice, countless bugs and one squirrel (though I’m almost positive he found it dead, drug it to the stoop and took the credit). As for his quality of life, he still enjoys the pampering and his regular heavenly indoor routine but he’s blissful, returning to the door bearing gifts and being allowed the chance to do what he was born (and loves) to do: HUNT. 

Sonic Boom

sonic boom. in my heart. a collapse. an end. an unsuspecting beginning. 

those Sonic visits pure in pace, perfect tempo. vital. 

i'll fade away as fast and deep in the abyss as the booming love conceived. he won't fade so hastily. my time is secure. indelible pieces of him stick to the walls of my heart. weight bearing walls. 

what doesn't stick; things done wrong. things never done. the future does not allow. the past is relentlessly unforgiving. 

the future holds...

books. chapters. pages. words. 

thoughts of; empty pages. words never written, never spoken. letters not played. stories not told. 

the future holds...

another day, that drags just as slow. deceleration. 

but alas, tomorrow, perhaps opportunities abound. 

The Curly-Haired Girls Club

I write mostly to apologize. Not for having curly hair but to the girl with whom I sat on the bus from New York City to Worcester, Mass. My opening line was precisely this; “Do you ever straighten your hair?” I could just kick myself for it now. As a curly haired girl, I should have known better. How offensive. I was just trying to throw out an opening line that might invite you to see we have but one thing in common. If you were offended or something of the sort, I’m sorry. I can relate as I know the feelings of anger and frustration that tear through me when I’m asked of the mall kiosk sales attack-man, “Please please ma’am. Let me show you how well this straightener works.” As if the very idea of straightening one’s hair might make them a better person? Or worse yet, might make them appear better? Where did this idea of only straight hair being sexy come from? Thank you very much Gwyneth Paltrow. (You had to be blonde too, didn’t you?) The only people who should be allowed to ask a curly haired girl if she straightens her hair, or if she’d like to, is another curly haired girl. Which I am. So I shouldn’t feel bad...but my hair was pulled back on the bus ride, so I do. But I’m sure she understood. And as we continued to talk about products (don’t worry curly haired readers, I’ll get there) and irons, literally, and pony tails until we were adults, and unsympathetic siblings, we began to bond over the issue. And what is this issue? In short it’s the curly hair issue, also known as the life-long membership to the Curly-Haired Girls Club.

You know the club if you’re in it. Membership requirements include:

*Dreading rainy days and summer months

*Hair ties, plural, around your wrist (and a complete nervous meltdown if you happen to be so frazzled about something in addition to your hair, you look down and see your hair band is somehow not there!)

*Notorious slow moving until you hair has completely dried

*Similarly and just as important, avoiding touching or God-forbid having someone touch your hair when it’s wet

*And last, but of course not least, having a bathroom shelf look akin to that of a shelf in the hair isle of your local Walgreen’s.

For those who don’t know, there are different kinds of curls. There are Botticelli curls which are of course the best kind because I have those kinds of curls. They’re the kind of curls that make other women envious, the I-wish-I-had-her-hair curls. The kind of curls you see in, yep you guessed it, Botticelli paintings. Hello Venus. Then there are corkscrew curls which would be the kind of curls that make one look at a woman who has them and say “yikes! how does she manage?”. Cupid curls would be the ones that appear the woman styled her hair with pencils, some hot glue and a lot of hairspray. These would be those tight curls that defy gravity - a walking everyday science experiment. *Beware of Southern climates* There are wavy curls, the non-curl curl. These are the women who stake claim to living the unpredictable life of a curly haired women, but mostly have no right in their saying so. They have curly hair with training wheels. They spend ten minutes instead of sixty straightening their hair. Nice try ladies, but make your own club. I like your hair though, Sandra Oh. Lastly you have the idealized and fantasized banana curls. Cue Shirley Temple, those clogging Irish girls and most Gil Elvgren ladies of the 50’s art era. Need I say more?

The thing about curls is that they a personality all to themselves. They demand at times to be straightened or pulled back. I say pulled back as if it’s an easy and quick thing to do. It can be, but it takes practice and a mirror. Then you have to determine which hair tie you have around your wrist best suits your current situation. Are the curls just in your way but need to be preserved for later? That’s a tight tie once around. Are they driving you nuts and you don’t have anything to do but cook dinner and work out later? That’s a medium tight tie, two or three times around - and maybe even an updo depending on your level of frustration. Are you sort of hoping they’re going to stay nice but you don’t necessarily need them to be down later? That’s a loose tie twice around. You see where this is going... They sometimes get lazy, wake up late, go to sleep early and don’t show up when they should. They’re finicky and controlling. No, you can’t go swimming right now, you just got out of the shower and did your hair. They have a short working day. From door to door between each shower, they likely only make a good appearance for, at best four hours. That can depend on your kind of curl. But let’s average it and say you’d better only have one important thing planned for the day unless you live nearby and don’t mind taking showers. Sometimes they make you think, I’ll diffuse today - no, not every situation of the day - but just my curls this morning after the shower. In which case your ends will look like they’ve been through hell and back just so your crown can have some body. It’s give and take - all the time. They may get mad at decide to separate from one another, perfectly rejecting the idea of teamwork. Enter hair tie. And on humid days, the headband. The product and the straightening is a whole other animal really. Product. How much? What kind? Applied all over or just to the tips? A different product to the tips than the root? It’s a never ending battle of do’s and don’ts. My best advice? Never use more than two quarters worth (and I have long hair). And stick to clear or lighter colored creams. Never, I repeat NEVER gels. As far as straightening goes, stick to the winter months and if patience isn’t a virtue, I’d get used to the look au naturel.

But as much as we complain and make fun, or as we may never forget get made fun of, curly hair has it’s plusses (and I think we’ve discovered minuses). We are the envy of every flat-haired woman in the world. They look at us and fume, “Right there! That! Why can’t I have that?! That’s exactly what I want. Is that so hard? And here I have to slave over the curlers for an hour just to have them fall out after twenty minutes. I bet that girl doesn’t even do anything. She just combs her hair and walks out the door!” Yes ma’am, it’s true. I do comb and walk, just about everyday. What you don’t know is it comes with the price I’ve already mentioned. But knowing what I do know, and hearing my mom say those same words near verbatim, I’ll take the good, the bad and the curly every time. Another plus? We’re almost always cute. There is something about seeing a good girl with curly hair that just puts you in that happy place. Maybe it’s a childhood memory or a friend you know who’s hair looks like that. Or maybe, it reminds you of that time you decided (the worst decision of your life yet) to get a perm. And it reminds you of how wrong you were when you thought getting a perm would make your hair look like any curly haired girl's hairs. Nice try. Membership only applies once, from the beginning and it lasts a lot longer than your perm. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say a benefit was that our curly hair gives us character. Cliche maybe? But how boring are those girls who had to put a pink bow in their hair in 7th grade because it was the only thing that made their hair different from anyone else’s with straight hair. We curly haired girls are so unique. Our hair never looks the same twice. We are a year round snowflake, different with every wash. Plus, I think I heard somewhere that curly haired girls are smarter. Yes I’m certain I read that in a medical journal once.

So please forgive me bus companion, with your adorable corkscrew curls you tied back over and over and over again. As you see here I’ve been bothered that I didn’t give us a better more acquainted introduction and flash my club card at you with the secret handshake. I hope one day we’ll meet again. Perhaps then we’ll have stumbled upon a newer and even better product than the ones we discussed last time that we can share.

For those interested: my go-to never fail product for both air and blowdry is Aveda Be Curly and Infusium 23's leave-in treatment. Also surprisingly good for the cheap stuff is Aussie Mousse + Leave In Conditioner. I usually stray from mousses but this one's not bad.

Malcolm Part 2, Post-Malcolm

And here I thought I was something of a writer. O Malcolm, you've given me new life. You've given me more life. New ways to look at word, new ways to look at life, at darkness, at poetry. As I begin with this "O" I recall the Anitphons you introduced me to. A series of Christmas season poems that develop life and hope as Christ is born. You read only three. I read them all. Such deliberate picking of words. Such life they bear. Upon utterance they sprout and spring up in one's life, bringing with its shoots new unbroken ground. Ground I knew I had but never before found access to. O how the words have such meaning. I know that now, after your visit. They host what one longs for. They host a beautiful place to get lost in, where time fades away and priorities can root. You've reminded me of how old they are, of how they know more than we do, of how they come to life like ripening berries when you pick the right ones at the right times. I learned patience and trust. I learned that no good writer should call him or herself such until they learn to speak the language - even if only inarticulately, that you do. But above all I learned respect for words and how one can so perfectly weave a tapestry of language into a mature, rich offering for those of us ready to receive it.

Some things were like I said. We did brave the black roads on a burnt orange Softtail Custom and bear the fading sun-burns to prove it. But there were no recitations, no popping of Sun Drop tops, no finding of a quaint deserted road stop to fill-up our tank and our minds with new refreshing thoughts to power our ride. It was simple really. He spoke poetry. It's a language you know, a pretty and artful one of course. They are words and lines and translations of thoughts to this world from the poetic world, "the world unseen", the layered, finding world. The culmination of all brilliant thinkers having deeply thought on a subject until they came out with lines of a poem that perfectly captured the so long-thought profundity. I would here insert examples of lines of he who thought such and such about this topic, and she who had this to say about that, as did Malcolm during his visit. But I don't speak poetry. It was hardly segued but instead just a line spat out mid-conversation of Herbert's of Eliot's or Heaney's or Lewis'. It was a challenge for me to determine through the week if these were original lines of Malcolm's, becoming thoughts just as nearly as they were uttered. Or if he could access so quickly his vast accounts of poetry lines by tagged category. I say for example, "I realized recently how much encouragement writers need together." And his mind delivers him "Encourage" and "Writers' Camaraderie" each offering stacks of pages to sift through - all in a moment. He picks, he speaks, I gape. But they all live in Malcolm, these friends of his. They speak to him as he speaks to himself, perhaps a great discourse between our time's best literary minds. He speaks like they do as he has spent years and years familiarizing himself with his friends' labored thoughts. They tell him on pages, in words, in powerful manufactured lines about their idea, gripped like grim death until lo and behold, the fist opens and a flower bursts forth, an elaborate yet efficient poem.

But as the week went on, I began to realize I was less hearing the thoughts of ghosts of writers past, and more hearing the flawless joining of Malcolm's own long-thought profundities with those from which he was first prompted. His brilliance far surpassed that of recitation and went deep into unique generation. His own poems create a stir in me. I long for such talent but am content to hear the reading of his own proudly plucked words. He speaks in such connectivity to me as I wait patiently to hear the sound of the word he so purposely picked next. The agony he must endure in such decisions.

I most admire him (who turned out to be shorter than I first thought) for his unique and aggressive way of using what's been given to him. A Christian man and so a man who knows what offers ought not be rejected, has resolved to use them. Thus, a poet, a great musician and as of last week, an inspiration.

This Same Sun

Opportunity again
This day like the last
Under the same sun that rose and preceded me,
The very light shone on each before us

With which few embraced

But I've done little to deserve such time
I, instead, fail and fall short.
My rare rising oft feels to beget the falling.
Of what's intended in this daily offering
I mostly ignore.

What's done this day no separate from my past
But I and the sun will rise tomorrow,
Graced and grateful
Allowed to live again
Beneath God's gold light.

(photograph: © Katherine C. Fleming, Pine Knoll Shores Winter Sunset, 2009)

Malcolm Part 1, Pre-Malcolm

Malcolm Guite, british poet, singer-songwriter and priest has arrived in our country today from Cambridge, UK. As I know of him so far through a mutual friend, he’s brilliant, he’s captivating, he’s the epitome of cool, he’s funny and most importantly he rides Harleys. He even owns one. So what would a trip be like to the States if Malcolm doesn’t get the opportunity to rent and ride? In a word, devastating. And if I didn’t get to take a ride with the Malcolm? Tragic. So I shall be his passenger and handy human travel map. For anyone who doesn’t know, I’m pretty good with directions, truthfully, very good with directions. I’m the voice on the tom-tom stuck to your dash but better; I’m stuck to your waist and cute. I’ll wrap my long fair arms around his waist and say “I’m ready,” and give him directions to ride off on the asphalt. I imagine we’ll go to Pinehurst or Apex or Holly Springs. Somewhere that is a long drive so we can feel the humid wind in our face turn cool and the heat hum from the bike below. My hair will be tossed about in the wind and I’ll later worry what the ride has made it look like. The bike will rumble and feel heavy between turns. I'll feel a bit like a bad ass for being on one, a real biker chick - for a day at least. And I'll even get up the nerve to pass along the 'Harley Hello' to another Fat Boy rider. I’ll ask him to recite poetry while we ride. Maybe his own, maybe his favorites of others - I’m sure he has them memorized. He might even ask me to recite some too. I’ll go blank trying to remember anything impressive or anything at all. Maybe I’ll come up with a haiku I read once, or maybe I’ll just say “oh, no.”

When we get hot or tired or run out of gas, we’ll stumble upon a quirky little stop where we’ll pop the top of a cool southern drink, perhaps Sun Drop, as I’m certain I’ve somewhere heard we like that down here. We’ll chat about semi-private things as we neither know when the next time is we’ll see each other. I’ll be honest, as I usually am, and he’ll have some friendly insights into my life, spiritual and all. Perhaps he’ll notice that I’m not the average woman I may appear to be and he can dish out all the literary and spiritual references he wants - as I listen shoulders back, wide-eyed, neck forward and jaw-dropped, I’ll lap them up. I’ll look up to him eyes locked and ears perked, being the good life-long student I’ve committed myself to be. He’ll say some things I never expected and some that I did. And the ride back will be a freeing one. I’ll have heard some nugget to let my mind wander on the good things and let loose from the bad, as he will have said enough to sooth my deep-rooted worries for the time being.

The best part will be where it all sets in. When I realize what is happening and that I’m pretty well off for just having spent time on a bike with the great Malcolm Guite. I have yet to figure the greatness of Malcolm. I’ll need time to perceive such an impression. I should meet him first. I haven’t yet. He’s busy doing what work he came to the States to do, teaching of some sort. But free of charge, I'll have had my own private session.

Healing of a Boy with Demon (Luke 9:37-43)

The worn man looked down on his son writhing on the ground in utter agony. The boy kicked and screamed rising dust from the ground around his body - a dirty storm rose up that made it hard for the man to see his son. His boy, a young boy who just years before had been playful, smiley and curious as boys that age ought to be, had something ahold of him. The demon inside threw out noises uncharacteristic to this world - screeches and shrieks from the bowels of darkness. Long-held bawls in a pitch no man could reach. It said things foreign but recognizably evil.

The bearded man finally appeared to the boy and his father. "Teacher" the father said, "I beg you, look at my son. He is my only child."
The man watched as the 'spirit seized the boy. He screamed suddenly and it took him, convulsing him until he foamed at the mouth. It released him only with difficulty, after wearing him out.'
"I begged them to cast it out but they failed," he said.
"Bring him here, faithless one," the man said. "How long will I be here, enduring you?" he added. He walked toward the boy who was now exhaustedly laying dirty on the ground, breathing quick heavy breaths. As the man approached he was thrown down by the demon in a convulsion. He nearly bounced from the ground to rise again standing as if he had never touched it at all. He named the spirit and called to him loudly. He told him he would be cast out. The spirit laughed and replied in a way that caused the mans eyes to narrow and his teeth to gnash. He ordered him to leave and in a flurry of latin sayings, the boy went limp. He was free of the demon for now, exhausted but free. The boy's eyes came to life as his father ran to him crying. He held him up as a tribute to the bearded man.

Prison Bars and Pastoral Scenes

Each morning is the same. The contents of it never strays from a routine set in place by years and years of disarming and disturbing dialogue. The result, a hard and broken person, so lost in their own tragedies they can't find the energy to stumble into the light. So he lays on the lumpy and long mattress, arms folded behind his head, legs crossed. He's been awake for mere moments. The sound of sins and the feeling of damp, cold walls never goes away - not even in his dreams. There is no sight of the rats, as usual, but he can hear them hustling across the crossbeams ahead. He thinks on their lives. The rat here has more freedom than he. They're in the same prison but they don't know it. He thinks on his life. He knows were he is. Prison walls have a way of letting that be known immediately.

He will rise in 18 minutes, his door will be unlocked and he will head with the masses to food. Eighteen minutes is a long time when all you're thinking about is darkness. And worse yet, the light you can see through the darkness but seem to never reach. He's hardly responsible for what got him here. It was self-defense. All those unforgiving years of conditions and merits as a way to worth. How was he supposed to know he didn't have to kill to earn...respect, love, admiration? He didn't even have to hurt. It was all a ruse. He almost knows that now. He knows it best when he sees outside the lines - past the fences, barbed wire and guards. The obstacles abound, but only from getting there. His view is not obstructed. He can paint that bucolic scene in a minute when it's dark and he's curled on the molded noisy mattress. Sprawling hills, all shades of green that sprout old, commanding trees with trunks just made for leaning and boughs just made for shade. Wildflowers scatter the busy lines of grass with no order. Purple Coneflower on the left and a few past the oak. Ox-Eyed Daisies abundantly spread from side to side and front to back of these wild, uncultivated grounds. Blue flax waits patiently at the feet of an unruly Alpine Currant.

That day, though, where he asks the boughs for cover may never come. The cold bar that sticks to his cheek as he squeezes much of his face through to the outside serves as a constant reminder of his whereabouts. And while he can see outside, the colors and variety of life, he's not convinced he doesn't deserve these unsightly walls, cold confines and rough, unrewarding relationships - if you can call them such. Perhaps the austere conditions are just what he bargained for.