Thursday, June 22, 2006

I can still run!

We are going to run The Portland Marathon. He agreed to run a marathon with me! Its the least he could do, since, after all I committed to weld my life to his. I have promised to guide him safely to the Finish line which begins more then 16 weeks before we even get to the Start line. That is, if you have the luxury of weeks before the 16 weeks before the day of the race. I know enough, I hope to get us both through.

The arm cast in my weeks before this 16 weeks was not luxurious enough to allow for running so we are both are running from Point Zero. We warmed up running 11:30 minute miles just to see if my feet still landed on the ground first, before maybe my knees got there... or worst of all, my wrists. I can still run. We have 100 days and 7 hours left to run some more.

Sometimes I run smooth, like all the million fragments of me stopped struggling. Sometimes I run fast and from the bottom of my lungs and I think ragdoll to remember my form and footfalls. He lopes beside me, easy. I have felt worse, but I have rarely felt better.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Get Well Soon Part 5

My brother John and his wife Anita were here. We ate good food, we walked, we remembered growing up which happened a long time ago.

We started fires, and we put them out.

We got up absurdly early when the morning light was stealthy and gold to watch World Cup Soccer. Then they left and I was sad and napped with a little heartache because they are sweet and their visit was way too short.

And too, while they were here Willie was rushed to the vet with a deep cut on her back leg and came home all stitched, dopey and coned up. Just like me, and Edison and the fractured ankle I never wrote about, plus my mom is having knee surgery tomorrow. We are in a streak of notso good luck.

She spent a while scooting backward across the kitchen trying to escape from her Elizabethan collar which was not funny one bit and I did not laugh like a total jerk would have laughed.

Monday, June 19, 2006

How I nearly died

eye contact

Nobody likes a gastropod. Its true. But life is particularly hard when you are terrified of them. Its like they sense fear and they attack. I am constantly being ambushed and lunged at by snail/lugs. Fleet footedness is perhaps the only thing that has saved me time and again. There may come a day I am not so lucky.

By gastro-tack is not a nice way to die if my garden is any indication (Greek gaster: stomach, poda: feet). It is to be sawed down by a digesting stomachfoot that writhes like a living dogturd with a razorsharp toothed ribbon called a radula... the tiny chainsaw tongue of death.


Saturday, the fatal mistake of accidental eye contact with one of these monsters... I knew I was done for. In the above photo you can clearly see the menace, the bloodthirst. I settled back on my heels, set up my camera, made peace and waited for the end.

In the meantime I was able to snap a rare picture of this leaping snail in mid-attack. Clark was never sure to believe me, though never mocked my gaspy screams (bless him). Now he knows, perhaps he has finally learned from me. Never show fear.

After safely putting away my equipment and checking my bootlaces so to not trip to my death I barely escaped with my life.

I don't know why I haven't moved out of the moisty Northwest entirely.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

The aftermath

I am avoiding other responsibilities so it only makes sense to post sixty more pictures of my cat.

In part I don't know how to say what engagement is to me.

Wonderment and fear are constant themes here... but for the weather and for running through deep puddles, courting disaster, mantras on my own death, eviscerated anatomy.....

Easybreezy preoccupations, no real need to worry if I betrayed myself or misled my audience.

I felt terror and emotional prostration before the wall of wedding books at Powells. A little futile ache.

I am afraid of everything it seems.

Wash Day

Willie got bathed today. Maybe I felt like I needed more misery to make me laugh. She hardly put up a fight. I soaped her up with my best shampoo to assuage the indignity and insult to her catliness.

Cats, after all, feel they are best bathed by their own tongue. But Willie has a thing for rolling in the dirt, laying on her back, belly exposed to see how big and funny the world looks from down there. She comes in the back door tangled with pine cones and dried leaves.

She is a queen among cats, descending from a long line of Norwegian Forest Cats. This I decided in the veterinarian waiting room while we waited to check in with our chewed up dog. The book says it was considered good luck to catch a glimpse of one of these cats in the wild.

This is your lucky day.

In fact Freyja, the Nordic goddess of love and fertility tore across the Norwegian skies in a cat drawn chariot. We simply must assume Willie is a direct descendant of her majestic Norse felines, divinity is in her blood. It is clear to me, my cat is a viking, a gottamn kitty valkyrie.

(though now dry she resembles a dandelion, a cat shaped dandelion in a feathery gossamer spray of black and white hair)

Thank goodness she was all dried up and content by the time Animal Control got here. Who knows what kind of punishment awaits those who so wantonly violate the dignity of such a mystical creature.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Get Well Soon

Well, the owners swear that she is the sweetest dog with children and cats. But she was a rescue dog they say, one that was never properly socialized. Everyone I have ever met swears their pit bull is the sweetest dog.

Molly has attacked at least two other dogs in the neighborhood, tearing open the back of a football sized mini-Doberman whose vet bill came to over a thousand dollars. Edisons two vet bills combined are another thousand dollars. The owners have paid all these bills in full.

I picked Edison up this morning at the vet and could hardly help laughing. He was led out on a green leash by the vet in bright blue scrubs, head bandaged red in a clear lampshade, with his leg bound in fluorescent pink where they had inserted the IV. The vet was carrying a plastic bag, flaming hunter orange full of doggy narcotics and after care. He was delirious with joy when he saw me and fairly danced my way cuffing plants and pant legs with his absurd collar. He has eaten biscuits by the handful and is currently dozing on pain pills. Thank you for all the well wishes.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Animal Life Part 2

Generally I am not a head basher. While I have been known to butt heads (as recently as Friday) I do not tend to pick up rocks and hurt people on the head with them. I am not very good at it. I am left feeling weak and unhappy.

I got down and started pounding on Molly's head first with my fist which accomplished nothing like letting go but left me bruised, puffy and sore on the hand, the one just out of the cast no less. Then I ran and got a softball sized rock and started pounding on her head. Me, thrashing down there in the grass and dog spittle and screams on an animal that did not even flinch.

Could you hurt a face like that?

Mollys family lives a half a block away. The stupid son who is in his mid 20's or something came running and did nothing at all. What was he doing?? Looking back it seems he was waiving off flies. I ran and got the hose and hosed the useless son and the two dogs while more people came running and Molly finally let go only because she torn clean through the cartilage in Edisons ear.

I thought he was being killed before my eyes so I was fierce and cursed like a demon and a warrior. It was awful. It was really awful. Fearsome and alarming. During all this I had no idea how bad or notbad things were. I only knew the trashing and the cries. Still, I was a lousy rockbearer and feeble headbasher.

It was like there were two entirely different things happening: my desire to rid Edison of her hurtfulness and my desire to not hurt her. And I am mad at myself for holding back and I never want to touch a rock again... in that manner. I have never been able to back it up. I am tired and conflicted with jagged emotions, sick and sorry.

Molly went after Edison again because the son was hardly holding her and she tore out of his grasp. Edison was in the back yard freaked out and bleeding. He fought her off again but she only needs once to lock her pitbull jaws. Before she managed to do that again we separated them.

Maybe you remember Molly. Last summer she tore Edisons other ear. Her family paid the bill, were contrite and sorry. They promised it would never happen again.

July 2005

Tonight the motherwifelady answered the door when we both, Clark and I went calling. She wept and promised to pay the bill, estimated to be nearly $700. She was heartbroken and it was another shard of feeling. I am that Tarot card of the guy who lies around jabbed through with sharp sticks. Its okay. I am reporting it this time and told her, and told her my name, and SORRY THAT WE HAVE TO MEET UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES. And I am.

Edison will be home in the morning with stitches and a funny collar. Please, in lieu of flowers send biscuits.


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