thoughtslip

I don't want to create a reputation for myself as an itv play-gal (though it is the best sleep-aid I have ever found) but last night ... everyone was offering cute things like house-warming, house-party, house-proud. Me? I was thinking house-fire, house-arrest, house-of-horror ... hmmmm ... must be my bio-rhythms, eh? drip. splat.

smugness ...

... x ...

oops ...

LOL ... ok, now I'm befuddled! The sun:roof post should have gone here but it went down there instead, which is right for the time I saved it in draft. I got distracted trying out a half-poem/photo thingy and wanted the leaky roof to be today's entry. Ah well!

If I delete it now and new-post as a today thing, I guess I'd have an embarrassing "Ha! Blogger derives enormous sadistic pleasure announcing that S made a complete mess of this!" So it stays! By way of an update, there has been drip splat silence. I think there was a mysterically complex geometrical wind-rain-angle equation going on and repairs will wait til I win the lottery? This week? See? I'm not all doomy gloom!


*image: Claude Theberge

.....

sun : roof

One of my pillows is wet when I go to bed. Since boy-cat has been tormenting girl-cat and made her very huffy, I think - no, assume – she's got the last word in by weeing on the sacred sleeping grounds. Since they are mostly arguing about who cosies up on the bed closest to me, this would be a superbly apropos move, given how clever she is. No doubts in my mind that this is a carefully thought out action springing from sadly true and honest intent. The ceremonial desecration of the pillow hums poetic justice.

Nevertheless, we have words. Whereby I apologize to girl-cat for turning her life inside out. For taking in the waifs and strays, thereby changing the colour of our quiet, intensely private shared life.

Drip. Splat. Loud in these hours that are an awesome chasm between days. Drip. Splat. Next to me. Another angel is crying – what did I do this time? The thought of down-winged guardians huddled together for a communal bawl at my antics down here actually does disturb me. Deeply. I hate for anyone to cry, celestial or not. I mean, crying per se is good, I hate that I can’t heal misery. I'm cool with Mystery these days but misery is always so … implacable. Inevitable.

Drip. Splat. Light on for full inspection of surroundings. Four cat-ears are alert to possible angelic sorrows or the imminence of demonic attack. Maybe it's on the t.v. Just because it's off doesn't mean it can't get to you. So, switch it on to check. The itv-play studio seems to be running its usual manic course. I distract myself by noting down wrong answers and cross matching with a hastily flung-together list of my own (innately correct.) Suddenly my list has more crossings out, on both sides, than is reasonable. Come on! Enough already! But then that's how it goes, eh? Nothing in my life has ever been reasonable, why start now? At least I have honoured girl-cat with overdue homage. I'm feeling better now.

Outside it's raining hard. Drip. Splat. Thoughts uglier than demonic or angelic wailing drive a wedge between "sundown" and "sunsign" (the puzzle on itv play is prefixed with "sun") and I'm chuckling at the lady who just suggested "sundial kid". But hey, who am I to snigger? I stretch out a hand. Drip. Splat. On my palm.

So how do I fix a leaking roof when I am NBC (Nil By Cash)?? I beg girl-cat to confess that she is indeed remote weeing. She purrs and settles down. On a dry pillow. Aaaahhhh … it never rains but …

*images: Claude Theberge

another breakthrough

It's strangely true that I'm still in recovery from teaching. It's only now, 7 years out of it, that I can bear to read or talk about it. That I can try to answer the phone, write with a pen, make a list or see a crowd of youngsters fill mid-afternoon. I still have difficulty holding onto simple detail, following basic directions, breathing in a crowd (four is max capacity.) Not-keeping-track of conversations has, at last, become a-musing to myself and friends rather than excrutiating social phobia.

It's sad comfort that I'm not unusual. Shocking how many of us there are. Jenna fell 3 years ago. She was superb, often mentioned by inspectors as excellent. She showed me how to teach with flair, how to make imagination's passion really work in classrooms. How to love it even if it all went pear-shaped. Especially when it did that.

A moment changes everything. Revelation strips you brutally, suddenly, no preamble. Here. Now. That's it. Done.

Ill with flu and stress, Jenna dropped the folder that had devoured yet another weekend. Everything spilled onto the floor, the metal teeth that held her life spat it out. Gazing at eviscerated, shiny lesson plans drowning in a hundred other pressing matters, all in triplicate, Jenna cried. Quietly. Incessantly. Her partner found her there, still kneeling on the floor, an hour later. Still gazing. Still crying. This beautiful, strong woman who is pathologically unwilling to cry. Ever. She who held my world aloft on her shoulders when it was crushing mine.

"can't do it. can't do it." Whispered incantation. Stunned, he said, "It's ok, love, I'll pick it up, I'll sort it out and even put it back in order, maybe treat you to a stronger folder …"

Almost beyond breath she keened "no.can't.do.this.any.more."

The utterly naked enormity of that moment guts passion with a butcher's grace.