Sweater Weather

I want it to be sweater weather. I want to wear ugly sweaters and walk Warden and Regrette in these ugly sweaters. I want to walk around the block and then jog around the block with these ugly sweaters on, with the dogs jogging in front of me. I want to drink apple cider. Warm apple cider. Apple cider with a bite. I want to enjoy pumpkin butter on a warm piece of toast. I want to enjoy pumpkin butter on a warm piece of toast while jogging in an ugly sweater, one with a dog stitched onto it!

I want to dig holes in the ground for the dead. That would be nice. I would work up a sweat. My body would ache. I would hurt. But it would be a good hurt. And I would understand then, my flesh and blood in a different way, and cover these things up with ugly sweaters and go on walks and jogs with Warden and Regrette. And I would drink warm apple cider with a bite. It would be delicious with pumpkin butter on toast.

This is what I'm looking forward to. I am not too worried about work. It will happen, as it always happens. I am sure of that. Some things sit like a stone inside my stomach. Mom. Tony. Dad. But other things are like dirt on tractor tires. Brittle. Or at least that's what Homes would always tell them. Dirt on tractor tires always falls off. You forget about it. Sometimes you look at it, but most times, you don't. Most times you don't even think about it.

Negotiations

I have a week left to make some money for rent. Trouble is brewing. Trouble on the horizon. I think my current landlord will give me some time--because it will be hard to get anyone else to rent this dump--but how much time does that leave Curt Jimenez to get his life together? Where do I go? Where do I start?

I went to a temp agency. They told me they could get me some short term landscaping and garbage cleanup jobs, and I told them I would think about it. "I'll think about it," I said. They encouraged me to do so. "Winter is coming," they said, "and these jobs will be harder to come by then." I understood. Things are harder in winter, in many ways. I should start "stockpiling grain", if you know what I mean. LOL.

I walked around town with the dogs. Past the diner. Past the spot where I used to pick up my newspapers hours before the sun came up. Kicked up some memories that seem nice in hindsight. But I'm not working at those places anymore for a reason, I tell myself. I tell myself it's all for the best. What else can I say? I have to negotiate this internal dialog in a very polite and deliberate manner. I hate to think of what could happen if my self-loathing became more intense.

Within me there is the part of me that fights to keep my life together, and the part that always manages to tear it all apart in a terrible self-destructive moment.

Curt, hurt. Curt hurts. Curt hurt Curt. Hurt; Curt. Curt hurts.

I am going to the cemetery. I am going to talk to somebody. I want to dig graves.

Heartbeat

Sometimes, I can feel my heartbeat in my leg. Or in my arm. Or behind my eyes. If someone were to put their hand where I felt my heartbeat, they could feel it too. Sometimes, I can see my hearbeat through the skin in my leg. Like my heart is really there. Instead of in my chest. Behind my ribs. I don't know why this is, why this happens. But it does.

Today, I felt my heartbeat in my thigh and I watched it beat until I grew tired with it and put my hand over it to forget. I made pancakes with apples and bacon and onions and mushrooms in the batter and melted butter on top of it. Butter is beautiful in all its states. As a liquid, it is gold. As a solid, it is gold. As a gas, I'd like to imagine it as gold. It is precious.

I ate my pancakes. They were delicious. And the whole time, I'd had my hand over the heartbeat in my thigh, so I lifted the hand and watched a tiny part of my flesh tremble. Maybe my heart had floated down into my leg. Impossible!

Tomorrow, the hearbeat will have moved back into my chest, where it belongs. And I will have forgotten about its place in my leg today. But it's something else.

Take what you get, man

Sometimes you just have to get back to butter. And I did today. Basic, just cream, whipped, salted.

Good butter, you can just enjoy on its own terms.

Ronny came over and helped. He made tequila sunrises. I enjoyed them.

We talked, about things. I got a little loose with my words and told him a few prison stories. Oh well.

We enjoyed butter on toast, and also on some sweet corn from Ronny's garden. We lived. We learned.

These days, the end of summer, are wonderful. A time to be cherished. Soon enough there will be reason to fret again. But not today! Today, only joy.

Tomorrow, well, let us not think of that today!

The Early Bird

I wake up early. I open my eyes and I say, "I'm awake. But it's still dark out. But I'm awake." At times like these, I think I would have been a diligent farmer had I chosen to be a farmer instead of...

Since it's so early, there are many possibilities. I can go in so many directions that thinking about them is already a direction I've chosen to go. I could look for a new job. Yes, I guess I could. I could do that and find a job and have money to pay rent and have money for dog food. And food for myself.

I could walk the dogs. I could take tiny steps so that I'd walk a long time but cover a very short distance. That way, after an hour or so, I could say to the dogs, "We've walked for so long. The apartment must be so far, far away." Then, I could turn around and say, "Why! There it is! Just twenty feet from us!" And the dogs would bark in unison, maybe, or not. But they would wag their tails as we jogged the five seconds back to the apartment. That sounds so nice.

Maybe, I could construct a butter stand. Not a lemonade stand. But a butter stand. I could yell, "Butter! Butter! Get your delicious, cool, homemade butter!" I could make butter on a stick or maybe butter patties. But butter on a stick would sell much better than butter patties, in my honest opinion.

Then, I could finish off the day by putting down a beer or two or three or four or five. I could call Ronny. We could play chess. I could make pancakes. Delicious pancakes and say, "How about breakfast for dinner?!" And we could eat the pancakes and finish our game of chess. Then Ronny could leave and I could tell Warden and Regrette a bedtime story. And I would say to them, "The early bird does catch the worm!"

Revisionist History

Sometimes, the biggest events are also the smallest ones. If this sounds confounding, that's because it is. You could put it another way: sometimes, big is just big, but sometimes, small is big, too! If that makes sense to you, then maybe we are on the level.

I'll give you a for instance: that first time I made butter. I'm certain I was too young to appreciate it, though in a bit of revisionist history I tell you I knew right away that it was important. But, that's just a story that's evolved the way it has because it's better to tell it that way.

People like to say "love at first sight", but how often does that actually happen? How many times do we think it's love at first sight, but actually, it was just you liking her and she thought you were too hairy and that you were actually a bit of a sleazeball? See what I mean?

Life, when it is going well, goes by too fast. When it is going poorly though, it goes too fast too! It is slippery, and uncontrollable. The greatest things are gone before you understood how great they were.

I walked out my door this morning with the dogs, determined to slow down, determined to notice things. I let the dogs smell anything they wanted to, and I let Warden pee as often as he liked. If something seemed really interesting to both of them, I got down on my knees and smelled it too. Why not? Dogs certainly have something to say about being in the moment. I've said, "I'll try anything once!" enthusiastically before, but I'm not sure I ever really meant it.

Well, I mean it this time.

Waiting, and Afterwards

Taking something apart is much easier than putting it together after having taken it apart. That's why Humpty Dumpty couldn't be put together again, I imagine.

The car was much like Humpty Dumpty. And Ronny and I were all the king's horses and all the king's men.

Ronny was kind enough to give me a ride to Bedford. He said he wouldn't mind, that he didn't get a chance to get out of the city too often, but was always looking for an excuse. "Bedford's beautiful this time of year," he said when I got into his car. And he was right. I guess I hadn't noticed just how beautiful Bedford was this time of year. It is beautiful.

On the car ride to Bedford, Ronny and I didn't talk much. Sometimes, he would point out a billboard or a house. Sometimes, I would tell him which way to go. I would say, "I think I made a right turn here," or, "I remember that house, so it must have been further down this road."

Finally, we found my car. And we worked on it, intensely. We inspected the parts like we knew where they went. Ronny took the screwdriver and asked for this piece or that piece and I handed him the pieces, and then he said, "Almost," or, "Not quite," or, "Dangit!" Then, I took the screwdriver and put something somewhere and this thing here and that thing there until pieces were in places and the car started. The car started and I couldn't believe it! Ronny and I hugged, and then we parted quickly and looked at the car, our hands in our pockets and said, "Yep, yep."

Then Ronny said, "You know, Curt, you remind me of someone."
And I said, "Who?"
And Ronny said, "Me. You remind me of me."
And I said, "Really?"
And Ronny said, "Really."

I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything. I just stood there and nodded. I wanted to hold a beer in my hand. No one has ever told me that I reminded them of them. I wanted to say to Ronny: I can't remind you of you. Did you kill a man? Does your hurt still hurt? Have you been in prison? Do you feel like you're going crazy? Are you unemployed?

Ronny said he'd follow me home, just to make sure the car made it. But I knew he meant, just to make sure I made it. We drove through Bedford and onwards and sometimes, I would check my rear view mirror to see if Ronny was still there. Maybe he'd driven off, leaving me to myself. Maybe he'd gotten bored and made a turn onto another road. But he was always there. Right behind me. Support. And that's all I needed. Someone close, but far enough away. To be alone, but not forgotten. To hurt, but not forever.

When I pulled up to my apartment building, Ronny gave two quick honks and drove off. I waved and sat in my car and listened to the parts rattling. The car worked, but it was different. It wasn't the same car I'd driven a few days ago. It just wasn't. I didn't feel like the same person who'd gotten into it just a few hours earlier. I wasn't that Curt G. Jimenez. I turned off the car. I said, "What will happen now?" I said, "Why do I feel this way?" It wasn't a bad feeling. It was more like I'd been waiting to feel this way for a long time and now that I'd felt this way, my waiting was over and I could open the car door. And that's what I did. And now that the waiting was over, I could go into my apartment building. And that's what I did. And now that the waiting was over, I could rest.

And that's what I did.

Idle Hands

The Bedford County police called to ask why I had left my car in pieces on the side of one of their roads. I told them it had let me down one too many times. They told me I needed to come and get it or I would be charged for a tow.

So, tomorrow I am going to hitch back down to Bedford County to put my car back together. I can't afford to pay for a tow. I'm kind of curious if I can get it working again. Who knows?

I called Ronny to see if he wanted to head out there with me. I left a long message.

I shaved Warden's back today. He has a reverse mohawk now. I think he hates me.

I put a bunch of red twist-ties in Regrette's fur. I didn't know what else to do for her. I didn't have any bows.

Is something absurd if it actually happened?

Nap, Not

Sometimes, when you are tired and get in bed to take a nap, you can't sleep. What's up with that? All you want to do is take a nap. A nice nap would do you good. Would help you out a bit. And so you lay down on a comfortable bed and pull the blankets up just so, and you turn this way and that until you are finally still, and then you wait. You close your eyes. You clear your throat. You move your toes. Just a little. And you wait for sleep to take you. And you wait. You open your eyes, just to feel the tiredness, just to make sure you are tired. You are. You are tired. So you close your eyes all over again. You think of something. The first thing that comes to mind. It's the sight of a burn. You think, No, I don't want to think about that. That's not something that will put me to sleep. If I fell asleep thinking about the burn, I would have a nightmare. You tell yourself, No, but because you've told yourself No, the thought persists. This time, with more detail. The burn is revealed. There was a man once. He was a friend of your father. And you open your eyes. But it's too late. You are thinking about the friend of your father. He'd burned himself. Spilled gasoline on his leg and dropped a cigarette on his pants. You saw none of this. You saw the burn later. You saw the burn at a picnic, when this friend of your father stopped by and drank whiskey. So much whiskey, the gauze covering his burn took on a strange color and smelled like whiskey. He took off the gauze, just because. He wanted to show everyone what a real burn looked like. You looked. You looked into the red eye of something beneath skin. You saw what soft skin looked like, white and swollen like wet macaroni on a sidewalk. Sometimes, when you are tired and want to take a nap. Sometimes, this happens. Sometimes, you can't shake the image. Just sometimes.

on random

It is hard to drive randomly.

It is hard to get to random places.

Random is hard.

Where you live, you know, and you can't trick yourself into not knowing it. You have to pick a highway, and just follow it, and hope it leads you somewhere interesting. Which is too intentional to be random, really.

One time, Tony and I were in a state. We were sitting there, trying to talk, but not really able to. Sometimes communication is hard. A caterpillar crawled up beside him. I pointed it out to him, and he ate it. He said he did it for random. I think if he had lived, he might have been a philosopher.

We were driving, Warden, Regrette and I, and we passed a large property with a tent and chairs and music and candles and people dancing. I thought about how rude it would be if i stopped, and then i thought about tony, and i turned into the lane and parked. I owed it to Tony--and to random--to check this party out.

The next time i get a dog, i'm going to name it Random.

I wondered who i could be for these people. Who did they need me to be? Who was suffering, who was alone, who was lonely? Curt jimenez was not crashing this party for himself, he was here for those in need.

I introduced myself to a few people, and tried to get a feel for what everyone was about. When someone finally escorted me to my car, i thought about how hard random can be. People don't just let you do whatever the hell you want to do.

It was still light out, and Regrette and Warden were restless. You know how sometimes the weight of life hits you? Suddenly, it hit me. I thought about how I'm almost out of money, and how I don't have a job or any job prospects. I thought about how long it's been since i've been with a woman. Why was I driving, and to where? For what? Where was i?

I should probably be medicated.

I pulled into a clearing i saw off the road at some point. I had a wrench, and a screwdriver in the trunk. I started taking my car apart, piece by piece. I just piled them up, the small accessories, and the essentials. The spark-plugs and the what-nots. In retrospect, you might have called it a melt-down. I had a little portable radio with me, and I found an oldies station.

We Gotta Get Outta this Place came on, and I cried.

And then, Laughing.

Ha!

B.R.B.

The car is packed. The dogs are ready. No more thinking. Just adventure.

I will be back soon. I promise.

I will tell
you all about
the adventures
I've had with
Warden and
Regrette!!

Sometimes, Thinking

Sometimes, I wish Warden and Regrette were small dogs. Dogs I could scoop up into my arms. Dogs a woman could put into a purse. But they aren't. They're large dogs. Large, loud dogs. Dogs that sit with me on the couch, squashing me. Dogs that leave puddles of drool on the kitchen floor. Dogs that destroy.

But I love them, nonetheless.

Sometimes, I think how nice it would be nice to be scooped up into someone's arms. To be put into a purse. To be so small, and loved because I was so small.

Sometimes, when I think things like this, about Warden and Regrette's size and how nice it would be to be small, I know I need to go on an adventure.

I think I need to go on an adventure.

Incomplete

She came, she knocked, I slid it under the door, and she walked away. It wasn't the knife I had stolen, but it was a knife, and Belle Star apparently accepted it.

There is more to say. But I need to digest it.

I will tell you when I am ready.

All About Belle Star

You know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about that time when Belle Star came over and climbed out the bathroom window. I was thinking about that time when she called and said, "Where's my knife, Curt? You sonovab****!"

Belle Star was screaming into the phone and I was still holding onto the knife. I'd put it on my night stand before I went to bed last night and when I woke up, I picked it up again and held it in my hands. Belle Star was screaming and I wasn't listening. I said, "I have your knife."

Belle Star said, "I know you f***ing do! I saw you take it out of the diner! I want it back!"

Belle Star must have said some more things. She must have threatened me and sworn many more times. She must have asked what I was doing, why I wasn't giving her any answers.

"I have your knife," I said again.

Belle Star. I wonder why she is the way she is, exactly. Why does she care so much about the knife? Why did she slip out my bathroom window? Why does she always raise her voice? Why are her pancakes so bad? When was the last time she'd fallen in love and had her heart broken? I've never really given much thought to these questions before. I've never really cared.

I wanted to crawl through the telephone and into Belle Star's ear. Into her head. I wanted to, and still want to, for some reason, know everything about her.

"Belle," I said, "I have your knife, but if you want it back, you have to come get it yourself."

There was a pause. I could hear her breathing. Then, "Fine, you bastard, fine," she said. "I'll be over tomorrow morning and I better get my knife back!" She hung up and I hung up too. I held the knife and looked at my reflection in the blade.

Mismatched

Belle Star's diner is mismatched. She has mismatched tables, mismatched chairs. Mismatched plates and mismatched cutlery.

I was washing a butter knife today, and I couldn't stop staring at it. Belle caught me transfixed, and started harassing me. I did not want any attention today. Today I just wanted to be scenery.

"Fallin' for that knife, Jimenez, you f**kstick?"

It was a beautiful knife, and yes, I had fallen for it. I stuck it in my pocket, right in front of her.

"You didn't!" she said.

"I did!" I said, and I walked out the door.

I walked and walked. I took out my knife from time to time and pretended it was a light-saber. I pretended it was a magic wand. I pulled it out and mimicked spreading butter onto toast, or an English muffin. I thought of the butters that knife had encountered through the years. Of the not-butters that no reasonable person would ever mistake for real butters. I thought of truth, and lies. Lies, and damned lies.

I thought about freedom. I thought about lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about freedom. I thought about that moment when it finally came--when my time was finally served--when I was free and didn't know what I should feel. When at varying moments it felt better than I ever could have imagined--and then like nothing at all--and then like the world of possibilities that now awaited me was so vast and overwhelming that I would have no choice but to be swallowed up by it all.

I thought about how one chapter ends, and then another chapter begins. In a book, when you are reading it it's movement can shock you and amaze you, and when you are not reading it, it is just a book. I thought about that.

I wondered if Curt Jimenez and Belle Star's diner were just mismatched from the start.

What next?

Metaphor

I am a quart of heavy cream being slowly churned. Something good becoming something better. Separation and solidification. White to yellow, liquid to solid.

I was let to go sour, but now I am potential being realized.

I am spreadable and delicious.

Our Story

I don't know what it means. Anything. Things happen. The present moves forward, always. And I am always one step behind, it seems. But maybe, that's how we all feel.

When I was a kid, I'd always say, "Tell me a story." And I'd listen to a story. Most stories have a beginning, middle, and an end. And someone would start, "Well..." and I'd know that it was the beginning of a story. When someone said, "And then....and then..." I knew it was the middle of a story. The end of a story is not really the end. That's the thing. No one says to a kid, "I'm telling you a story, but the end isn't really the end." No. The kid grows up and realizes that the end of the story moves forward, into a darker place.

Tony told me a story once. He said, "Well, Curt, we're gonna do this and that." Then, he said, "And then we're going to do this and that." Then, he said, "Finally, this will happen and lead to that." That's how he ended his story.

In our story, many things happen. In our story, it is ok, I am learning, to feel one step behind. The present is always moving forward. How does our story end?

Move

Forward.

Ants

There were ants, everywhere.

They were on the windowsill. They were on the curtains. I didn't know what to do. Warden discovered them. He licked them from the windowsill. He's always hungry! I said, "Warden, what are you doing?" The ants crawled on his tongue. The ants crawled on his face. He buried his head into the carpet. He barked. I patted the ants from his face.

I didn't know what to do! All I had was all-purpose cleaner. So I sprayed the ants on the windowsill. Many drowned. Some struggled to drier surfaces and disappeared, to somewhere. I wiped them up into a paper towel and tossed the paper towel into a trash bag. I imagined some of the ants moving inside the bag, lost and not caring. Lost and content. All lost, nonetheless.

Afterwards, I looked to see where the ants came from. But I couldn't find a trail.

I hope this doesn't become a problem.

Possibilities

Last night, no sleep. Today, tired. Today, saying no, to dogs, to friends, to everyone. Today, rest. Curt, today, nothing. Tonight, there is a full moon. What does that mean? Anything? We are made of blood and water. Water and blood. Our insides are like the tides. Somebody told me that once. Or maybe it was from a Bob Dylan song. Maybe I saw it in a vision. Damn, I can't remember.

Today, all the boxes were gone. Into the apartment down the hall, I'm assuming. But today, I didn't leave my door open. I closed it. I took a long nap. I woke up to a knock, which I didn't answer. Possibilities--the police, Ronny, a vacuum salesman. Who's to say if it is better to know, or not to know? Today, not me. I chose inaction.

"Hello?"a voice said. "How are you doing?"

I didn't say anything.

"I"m Sam, your neighbor."

I didn't say anything.

"Ok," Sam said, "talk to you later."

Sam. A Briton. Probably enjoys tea. Perhaps chess. Possibilities. Possibilities.

Boxes

There were many boxes in the hallway. Boxes labeled Kitchen, Books, Leather, and Random Stuff! I wondered how these boxes ended up in the hallway. The boxes had to come up a flight of steps. The boxes had to be set down and rearranged. But I didn't hear a single noise. Then, I wondered if the boxes had come in the middle of the night. Finally, I wondered who owned all the boxes in the hallway.

I left my apartment door open so that if someone came up the steps and picked up a box, I could say, "Hello, how do you do? I'm Curt G. Jimenez. Nice to meet you." I left my apartment door open so that I could say, "Do you need any help?" I left my apartment door open so that if I saw someone taking a box from the hallway, wearing a mask, I could say, "Stop! That's not your box, is it?"

Regrette and Warden poked their heads into the hallway, but lost interest and tussled in the living room for a bit, before moving into the bedroom. I decided that I would make a butter for whoever owned all the boxes.

A nice, simple butter.

I went to the grocery store and picked up heavy whipping cream and a bunch of chives. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and noticed that many boxes were gone. The door at the end of the hallway clicked shut! I set the heavy whipping cream and chives on my kitchen counter and walked to the door at the end of the hallway. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. "Hello," I said. "Hello, I'm Curt G. Jimenez. Your neighbor, I guess." I put my ear against the door and listened. Nothing. "Okay," I said, "Bye."

For fun. Noise. Caution. These were boxes were small cardboard squares. Stacked one on top the other.

A Social Chamelon

Belle Star says that I'm aloof. A "character", she says. She says that I'm a social chameleon, trying to guess what people want me to be and then adapting to that expectation. "Be yourself Curt!" she'll say, and I'll mumble some response that doesn't make any sense. I don't try to not be myself. I guess I'm just not sure what the true essence of "Curt Jimenez", if that makes sense. I am always searching, never finding.

There was a man who was coming into the diner every day for a while, and he would bring a paper and start reading it and ranting about politics. I told him that Reagan was the only politician I ever trusted, which was a lie. Bill McKay is the only politician I ever trusted.

I think about being that guy who just says whatever is on his mind, no matter who is listening. That's not me. Sure, I tread lightly in conversation.

This is what I'm going to do, one of these days. I'm going to drink a pot of coffee, and like 10 Pepsis and I'm going to go down the street and start talking, just start spouting out my real opinions so everybody can understand exactly who I am, and exactly where I come from. I don't care if they're homophobes or fiscal liberals or hawks or doves or prostitutes or methodists. I'm just going to put it all out there and let people jump to whatever conclusion they want to. I am Curt! Curt Jimenez! I am going to rant against the NRA and the CIA, and tell people how I really feel about ELO and Edgar Winter. I'm going to yell at dog owners who don't collect their dogs' business, and I'm going to tell the Jehovah's witnesses that I've looked at their literature and I think it's just not my thing. And I think Ingmar Bergman is a hack.

That's not true. I'm never going to do that.

I'm me. A social chameleon.

Hammerhead Shark

Homes used to say, "Even nothing needs something." He used to say, "Even the center needs a center." Today, I thought of Homes and wondered if he was still in prison and remembered that he told me once, "If you think of me outside this place and wonder if I'm still in prison or not, remember that I said this: hammerhead shark!"

This post, Homes, is for you.

Hammerhead shark.

I've been having a hard time writing, lately. I've been logging on and staring at the screen. I've been looking out the window. I've been scratching my feet. I've been doodling. Trying to think of something, something to write. I've been saying to myself, or aloud to the dogs, "Nothing happened today! What happened today, happened yesterday!"

Even nothing needs something. Hammerhead shark.

Homes, once I asked you how to find something in nothing and you said, "Stop looking."

Today, I took a nap and walked the dogs, like I usually do. I thought of a possible butter to make, but decided against it and went to the library instead. I thought, How nice it would be to be a book.

To be read by someone who sought you ought. To be taken home and placed by a bed, or on an end table, to be carried in a book bag, and renewed. To wait. To be opened. To be turned upside down. To be placed back on a shelf. To sit, quietly for a long time. Until someone else sought you and wanted you all over again. Or to be read again and again by the same person.

That would be nice.

Homes, that would be nice.

This is where I'm at.

I will not tell you about the butter I made today. I will tell you that I made a butter and destroyed this butter shortly after I'd made it. I will tell you that the butter looked delicious, that it must have tasted wonderful, but even if I tasted it, I wouldn't have told you how it tasted, and maybe it didn't look delicious, maybe it looked terrible. Regrette is watching me. I bet she wished she could type.

Create. And destroy. Know and forget. Know. And know only. This is where I'm at. If you eat a soft pretzel and it's hard, is it still a soft pretzel? What am I getting at? Where was I? If you read a book but remember none of the story, what have you done instead?

Sometimes, it takes a long time to wake up. Today, I have not yet woken up. I am still sleeping. With my eyes open. I am being, somewhere between. I am so far away from where I am. I am making butter and destroying it because it is the most natural thing to do in this state.

The kitten is gone. Ronny stopped by and asked if I was on drugs. Sleepy, I said. Warden took one last sniff of the kitty before letting out a howl. Regrette walked into the bathroom and pooped. We listened to something on the radio. Not quite a song. More like a speech. A man purred, Purr-sue, over and over again.

Why were you there, what were you doing?

I am watching Ronny's kitten, just for a day or two. She is living in the bathroom, with the door shut. The litter is stifling in the small space, smelling of ammonia. I know nothing of kittens. I know this one is funny looking, and revels in excessive biting. Regrette, my enormous puppy, is terrified of the five pound creature who has invaded her living space. Warden sits with his nose at the gap between the bottom of the bathroom door and the floor, wagging his tail and making whiny noises.

This kitten, such a small thing, has upset the careful balance we have achieved in this tiny apartment. Regrette has brought back the deuce-nuisance. Warden just isn't himself. Neither am I. This is such a temporary change that I think we are all just annoyed that we have to do any work adapting in the short term. Annoyed. We are annoyed. We are also fascinated. And scared.

Ronny is sailing with his daughter and son-in-law in Lake Erie. Ronny loves swimming but hates sailing. He also hates his son-in-law. He is insufferable, a stick-in-the-mud, Ronny says. He sails not because he enjoys it, but rather because he likes to tell people that he sails and has a 40 foot sailboat. I think I would like to have a sailboat. My mom always said, "don't own a boat, know someone who owns a boat." I've never forgotten that little piece of advice. Maybe Ronny only hates sailing because of his son-in-law. After all, who hates sailing, but loves water? Think of being a sailor hundreds of years ago, back when it was the most efficient way to get around. Riding the wind! Wow!

And so we sit there, Warden, Regrette and I, staring at the bathroom door, listening to the sounds of a kitten crying and running around batting things around on the floor and tearing up rolls of toilet paper. The kitten was left on Ronny's porch. Did you know that actually happened to anyone? That is the story Ronny tells. Perhaps it is a lie. Maybe he adopted the kitten at the shelter, but doesn't want anybody to think that he is the kind of person who would adopt a kitten.

We are still sitting there, now listening to some Conway Twitty, when Warden starts howling, and I start crying.

We are still sitting there when Ronny calls and asks how Kitty is doing. "Great," I say, and I sound like I mean it. Ronny should at least think that Kitty is having a good time. She probably is.

Eventually, I get a bowl from the fridge and toss some fresh peppered lavender butter into it. I let Kitty out of the bathroom and put her on the table with the butter. I call Warden and Regrette in hopes of organizing some sort of communion. Communing with butter.

Regrette is still scared, but eventually everyone partakes from the dish. It is a moment.

Right now, it is all we have.

Greater than a genius

After the storm, I took a walk in the cemetery because everything seemed too loud. I brought Warden and Regrette with me and we slipped in through the gates and past a woman who was walking a big white dog in the company of the dead. There was a fog and the cemetery looked much like you would imagine a cemetery to look like at its best. It was a nice walk.

I thought about many things. I thought about washing dishes. I thought about Belle Star's pancraps, er, I mean, pancakes. I thought about butter. Somewhere, someone, at sometime, conducted a study, or chugged and plugged a mass of numbers, or did extensive research, in order to come to the conclusion that if a person devoted 10,000 hours of practice towards some skill, that person would be considered a genius. If I washed dishes for 10,000 hours, would I be a dish washing genius? If Belle Star made her pancakes for 10,000 hours, would they really taste any better? Or would she be a poor-pancake-making-genius? If I put in 10,000 hours towards my butter creations, would my butters become world renown? Would I be considered the Einstein of butter? Would I have to change the name of this blog to BestButterBlog?

Maybe that should be my goal. To devote 10,000 hours on making butter. Do I love butter that much? Would I want to spend 10,000 hours on making butter? Would I settle for 5,000 hours? 2,500? What would 2,500 hours make me? A mediocre butter creator? So-so?

Devoting 10,000 hours towards something is a challenge. I mean, there are 8,766 hours in a year. And I spent 20 years in prison. That means, I spent 175, 320 hours in prison. I am more than an inmate genius. What's greater than a genius?

Whatever that is, I am what that is.

Something to say?

Regrette kept giving her paw to me today, with this look in her eyes. It was like Lassie trying to get Timmy to do something urgent, and I couldn't figure out what she could possibly want. Something important to say, but no way to communicate effectively.

Right now, I feel the opposite. Perfectly capable of communicating, several platforms to do it in, but absolutely nothing to say.

Ronny told me I should join "facebook". Ronny said we'd be able to keep in touch better, and that I could see pictures of him doing fun stuff with his family and I thought to myself, Ronny lives three blocks away, we see each other a couple of times a week, do we really need to have an internet relationship?

He doesn't even know I have a blog, I don't think.

Just what I need is to make it more apparent how uninteresting I am. Maybe I can get Regrette to do a "guest blog" tomorrow!

August

I like Sundays. I have off on Sundays. Oftentimes, I make butter on Sundays. Today, I made a peppered lavender butter. It was delicious. I spread the butter on an everything bagel with a slice of tomato, thinly sliced ham, and pickles. Afterwards, I took the dogs on a nice long walk. I came back to my clean apartment and did some reading.

Some of my neighbors were having a potluck and it was the first time I'd seen them out and about. They were much younger than I was, maybe in their early twenties, and I wondered whether or not they knew much about me. I wondered if they thought of me as the old guy on the second floor with the two large dogs. I wondered if they thought I was strange, or grumpy, or old-fashioned. I wondered if they knew about my past. I watched them from my window. They were on the small grassy area in front of the apartment building. They were shoving cupcakes and rice and beans into their mouths. They were having a good time. I wanted to go down and join them, but instead, I watched for hours as they ate and talked and laughed. And soon, it was dark.

It is August. It must be August.