November Trees, Always Please. Then. Oh Geez.

Vernon pins his ears back. Looks more like a rabbit than a cat. He's grown since the last time I saw him, but he is a small cat, like a man who is short is still a short man. He meows and Warden and Regrette cower. Before I took him with me, Ronny gave me a toy, a mouse tied onto a piece of red string. "His favorite!" Ronny said. "Take good care of him."

Now we wait. Vernon licks a paw with a short tongue. My eyes start to itch. I start to sneeze. I am allergic, I think, to Vernon. Or, maybe, I'm allergic to the mice. They are quiet. I don't hear them. I wonder if they even existed.

It is almost November. Tomorrow, the 1st. Tonight, Halloween. Everyone thinks the trees are most beautiful in October. I'd have to disagree. It's those last few, still hanging onto their leaves, unwilling to part with them, that are the most beautiful. The leaves, deep orange and red. When you think of autumn, those are the trees you think of. November trees.

There it is. A noise. A scuttle.

Vernon stops his grooming. He stands up and arches his back. Again, another noise. Tiny footfalls. Warden and Regrette lift their ears, look at the cat prepare itself for a game it knows its going to win.

There Vernon goes. To the wall. Up, onto the windowsill. He looks up at the ceiling. He meows. It is long and tinny. It gives me chills. Then out he goes. Out the window. The window, where days before ladybugs were coming through a hole in the screen. Out the window, whose screen I removed earlier today, in order to take to Home Depot to find a replacement.

And just like that, Vernon is gone.

What will I tell Ronny?

Kitty, II

And so, I decide that I need a cat. We decide. I say, "Warden, should we get a cat?" and he licks my face. And I say, "Regrette, what do you think?" and I hold up my hand and get her signature high five. This is how a family makes big decisions, together.

But, this family is not ready to house a cat permanently. Luckily, Ronny has Kitty, so I call him up. "What kind of a hunter is Kitty?" I ask Ronny after we get done with the small talk. Ronny is big into small talk.

"We call him Vernon now," Ronny says, "and he is a natural born killer. Stinkbugs, mostly. Sometimes a chipmunk. Once, a garter snake, out in the garden. Can you believe it?"

I can't believe it. I hear the mice, still scurrying. Warden whines at them, pathetically. I make Ronny loan me the cat. "I am off tomorrow, Ronny," I tell Ronny. "I will pick Vernon up tomorrow!"

Tomorrow, adventure!

Mice

I hear them.

They are near.

In the ceiling.

Warden will not chase them like a cat. Regrette does not stir. I pull the covers up and up and hope that they will not chew on too much. What if the building is infested? What if behind these walls is another, moving wall? Squealing. The thought of it makes me shiver.

Maybe. Maybe what I need is a cat. A hungry cat. Starving. With sharp claws.

A killer. A ruthless murderer.

Two killers underneath one roof.

Maybe, that is the answer to this problem.

Peep

Autumn is here, legitimately. I know, because last night I kept trying to keep my hands in my pockets even though it made walking the dogs difficult. And it was actually dark when I went to sleep. While I was walking the dogs, there was a little woman who was going up to people's windows and looking in. She must have done this at five or six different houses just in the time that I was there with Warden and Regrette, and she made no effort to conceal her actions, which to me may have been the strangest part. Was she lost? Was she just nosy, or curious? She passed me, and said to me, "it's amazing what people will throw away!" which confused me even further. I mean, of course that's true, but talk about apropos of nothing. She wasn't carrying anything.

Maybe she looks in people's houses and tries to figure out what there going to be throwing away the next day. To see the garbage before it is garbage. That would be a strange hobby. I said to her that I once threw away a brand new couch, which wasn't true. I can be a bad conversationalist, as you know.

I did throw away a nice vacuum cleaner once. But that's a whole other story.

The Thing

This thing required some preparation. Some time. This morning, I woke up with dread, because the thought of doing things is dreadful, sometimes. Not always, but this morning, it was, but not for very long, you see, because I knew it had to get done and that I was going to do it, today, this thing that is, that is very important.

I do not meditate. But if you were to walk into my room this morning without me knowing, you might have thought that I was meditating. You would have thought I was at one with peace, or well on my way. You would have thought, in the darkness of my room, because I rise before the sun, that I was chanting. But I was not. I was reviewing a list in my head out loud. Things that I'd need for this thing. Out loud because just in case there was someone in my room that I couldn't see, but wouldn't hurt me when I saw them, they could tell me what I said, but not really understand what I meant by these words. They would tell me because I would have forgotten what I was chanting when I started making out their silhouette, just started thinking that I would be killed, or robbed, not yet aware of their harmlessness. My heart beating fast and hard. That's what I think.

The thing is done. I did it before all things. And when I finished, I could not believe that I'd done it, that I was capable, that I'd pushed myself that far, the farthest I'd even been.

So the only thing left to do was take a nap, which I did. And then go to the library, which I did not.

Okay? Okay.

Yesterday was my 300th post. A milestone! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Which is to say, maybe you thought it was okay. Not excruciating.

I have some things I have to do. Something like paying bills, but different. You know what I mean--some real deadlines, some things that I should have done a month ago but then I had to do this, or that, or the other thing, or walk the dogs or go to the library or mow the neighbor's grass or what-not. These things, even if it seems like they can continue to be put off, need to be done. I have to do them. Not next week. Tomorrow.

Okay, I have aired it to the public. You people can now hold me accountable. If the next time you hear from me, I have not completed the things I told you that I needed to complete, well, you should really let me hear it. Okay?

Okay.

Good Day, Better Day

Ladybugs came through my window, smelling like dandelion and grass.

Warden tried eating every single one and I told him to quit it. I said, "Quit it!" and he howled and thumped his tail against the floor. Regrette looked on without interest. But barked at a passing truck. Jumped up and pawed the window, poked a hole through the screen, and I knew that that's how the ladybugs had come into the apartment. Crazy dogs. As crazy as people. As crazy as The Ghost.

The Ghost. "Jimenez! Get going already!" The Ghost was having a bad day, or a good day, I suppose. A good day if he likes yelling at everyone, throwing Styrofoam cups of coffee with powered creamer onto the floor and crushing them with his hard, small feet. "Jimenez!"

But he wouldn't, couldn't take away from my day. My day was for me to decide whether or not it was good or bad and in the end, it was good. The ladybugs didn't bother me. They didn't not bother me either. The Ghost didn't upset me, but didn't put me in a good way either. But I decided, not five minutes ago, that it was good day.

Good day today, better day tomorrow.
Good butter today, better butter tomorrow!

Like Ivy, We Grow Where There Is Room For Us

At one point in prison, I stopped going to Homes' writing workshops. I'm not sure why. Homes might have been too hard on me during a reading of my work, or maybe what I was writing I felt was too personal to be sharing with my fellow inmates. I just stopped going. For weeks, I avoided Homes. That can be hard to do in prison, to avoid someone. I skipped meals, and didn't go to movie night. In prison, it is hard not to go to movie night. There are only so many things you get to look forward to in a week.

Homes started leaving notes around in places he knew I would find them. Eventually, I started to go back. What else was I going to do? Nobody would spot me when I went to the weight room, and nobody would play chess with me, because I wasn't any good. It felt like there wasn't room for me anywhere but the writing workshops, and even that was a stretch.

My point, I guess, is that even if I intimate like I'm going to stop blogging at the end of the year, or if I stop posting for a couple of days, it doesn't mean that I'm finished. No, I think this blogging thing is good for me, and I'm going to keep with it. There is room for me here, on the worldwide interwebs. And I'm telling you this, because I can tell that you care!

Jimenez, out!

H-O-R-T-E-N-S-E

Once, I was young. I know what's it like to know so little, and in truth, I know just a tiny bit more than I did then. I have felt some things more deeply, like loss and happiness, and it's been a pleasure to share these feelings with you. Sometimes, I can't believe that anyone would want to read a grown man--a former prisoner, a murderer--ramble on about butter and the weather and other whatnots. Somewhere, in your busy lives, you manage to check-in with Curt G Jimenez and that has been very nice. Maybe, my life makes you feel better about your own.

Once, when I was young, I kept an old woman company at a family reunion. I didn't even know how I was related to her, only that she was old and alone. She told me that I knew so little, and that she knew just a tiny bit more than I did, but that this tiny bit made all the difference. Separated us, mentally and physically. I kept her company because I took pity on her, and she kept me company for, what I imagine was the same reason. A small boy, not yet old enough to engage in adult conversation, not young enough to be considered naive and in turn, adorable, dumb to so many perverse realities. No, I was not that child. I knew about certain things already, and people could tell that I knew. So this old woman stood by me and I, by her.

Why do you read this blog, anyways? Do you skip to the good parts? Are there any good parts? What are you waiting for? What are you seeking?

I feel like this old woman. There is too much to say, but sometimes, it's better not to say anything at all. I wonder how she died? Alone. Eating a piece of toast. Or, maybe, upon waking, waking, and then saying to herself, "What's the point?" and closing her eyes, forever. Perhaps, on a walk, thinking about the boy she met at a family reunion. Maybe, she had just enough time to stick her fingers in her mouth and taste the last thing she touched--a dollar bill, a porcelain plate, a butter knife.

When I was a boy, I asked an old woman at a family reunion if she ever carved her name into a tree. She laughed and shook her head and so, I took her to a tree and showed her how to cut into the bark with a pocketknife, steady, steady, firm. First, I carved my name, Curt. Then, I handed her the pocketknife and she started on her name, H-O-R- her hand wriggling under the pressure she applied, her breaths, sporadic. Her white hair bouncing. I wanted to hug her, to tell her I loved her. T-E-N-S-E.

I don't know where the tree is. I wonder if it still exists.

Hortense, I wonder if it still exists.

Hey!

Hello world.
Here I am!

God. Gaw.

The men took her away. Sam. The Briton. Who lived down the hall. Who arrived with the boxes. Who knows how long she was dead in her apartment. Still and rigid, letting the dust collect on her like a desk. But the men came and when I went to take Warden and Regrette for a walk, I passed the men in the hallway, and I saw them enter Sam's apartment. My ear rattled. I knew something was wrong. That was two nights ago.

In prison, people die all the time. It's not the same. Mom died while I was in prison. But I was in prison. She was out there, in the world. We were separated.

Sam is the first human death I've experienced since prison. I don't know how I feel. I didn't know her at all, but she lived next door. She was dead next door. She might have cried out for help next door. We were not that different. Two people, living alone. Involved in a world, just barely, the name no one recognizes on a class roster.

I want to say that I am sad. But I'm not. I'm hungry. There's a hole inside me now I try to fill with water. Glasses of water. There's something I'm always looking for outside my window. But I don't know what it is, but I look anyhow, at the people moving about like they understand something I don't. I tried crying, for Sam and for Mom, but nothing came out, just hoarse noise and something I said but don't remember. Something like, "God," or "Gaw." What it is inside me is too big to come out through my eyes. It needs to come out through my chest. Needs to tear through me. But I'm not ready yet to give in.

I listened to the tines of a fork on the kitchen table and thought I heard something real nice. Like a song playing faraway.

I drank another glass of water.

God, I miss Sam.
Is it silly to realize this? To miss a woman I hardly knew?
Gaw. I miss her.

Are you sure? [A Rambling]

I am going to wear socks to bed. I am going to wear socks to bed because I realized that I don't like it when my feet are cold. I realized this this morning, when my feet were cold, and I thought: I don't like it when my feet are cold. It took me more than five decades to understand, to sympathize with my feet. Poor feet!

When I realized this this morning, I thought, I wonder how many other things there are about me that I don't know. Am I just coming to understand who I really am? Do I really like making butter?

Of course! That's not up for debate...

Today, after I'd made a choice, I asked myself: Are you suuure? to see if I really wanted to follow through with the choice I'd made. You should try it sometime!

When I went to pour myself a glass of milk, I asked, Are you suuure? I had orange juice instead!
When I went to work, I asked, Are you suuure? Yes. I was sure.
When I went to take a shower, I asked, Are you suuure? I took a bath instead!
After my bath, I decided to put on some socks and asked, Are you suuure? Yes. I was sure.

From now on, I'm going to wear socks to bed.

A Conversation With Myself, About the Weather

"A beautiful day."

"It is."

"To be cherished. There aren't too many of these left before it gets cold and dreary."

"It's true."

"But, then, it's a different kind of beauty. Beauty still, but different."

"Yes, I suppose that's true. Snow, and the like. The garbage of the streets covered by pure, clean snow, and for a moment forgotten."

"Yes! And then the filthy black slush, and then wetness, everywhere."

"Yes! A Pennsylvania winter. And I always look forward to it, and then it happens, and I wonder why I looked forward to it. Why? Cold , and wet, and all-consuming. We all say we love the changing of the seasons, but aren't we just too poor or too lazy to go anywhere else? Isn't that what it really is?"

"I don't know. I've never lived anywhere else. But I do love the changing of the seasons. Things are relative, right? If it was 60 and sunny all the time, could you really enjoy it?"

"That's ridiculous. Of course you could enjoy it. What is there that you like to do that you couldn't do when it's 60 and sunny? Huh?"

"Well, ice skating for one. And skiiing."

"That's true. But to do these things, and at what cost? Do you suppose there are blizzards in heaven? And heat stroke?"

"Curt..."

"Do you listen to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me, what happens every time you go ice skating?"

"That doesn't matter. Other people enjoy ice skating. And skiing. Maybe I'll finally go skiing this winter. Maybe Ronny will take me."

"Do you really think you can make it to 365 posts, Curt? It feels like you're really straining."

"Maybe so. You know what Mom said. 'Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it.' I think that's probably more true now than it ever has been, if you think about it."

"Who has time to think about anything?"

"That's true."

" Huh."

Need

Homes once said to me: "Curt, it is about wanting and need, wanting need."
I said, "Wanting and need?"
"And wanting need," Homes said. "Don't forget the wanting need part."
"Wanting and need and wanting need."
"Right."

I've been wanting and needing many, many things. Maybe I haven't said so directly in this blog, but I have been wanting and needing many, many things. Just read what I've written and you will read, if you've really read, my wanting and my needing of many, many things.

Maybe I should have just come out and told you my wanting and my needing when the opportunity presented itself. If I could whisper on this blog, then I would have whispered to you my wanting. Then, I would have whispered to you my needing. Then, you would know why I am the way I am and why you are the way you are. Because, wanting and needing are two different things, too different of things, and yet, they occupy the same space and this space is terrible and exciting and a disease that is neither good nor bad, but called a disease anyhow because it has the potential to be very good or very bad. We will never know, and that's okay. That is part of wanting and needing.

But wanting need? It is also about wanting need?

What it would be like to want need! Not just to have and not need to need. No, but wanting need. Having and wanting need.

How do I get there?

The Past...The Future!

Where life begins, and where it ends, I think is the question that I want to answer before it's time for me to go. I mean, I know it begins at the beginning--I know that--but consciousness is different. When you start to feel the world, you know? You start to understand yourself, and then you just wish you knew who you actually were like 10 years ago or something. Self-knowledge, that's what all those therapists and even Homes always used to talk about. Who are you, Curt? they would ask, and there was never really an answer, or at least not one that I was aware of at the time. But now, maybe, I have an answer! Call me up and ask me now, you a**holes!

Like what if I was 18, and had already tried all that other stuff, all that other bad, crazy stuff, and realized that all I really wanted to do was make butter, and blog, and try to keep my dogs from destroying everything valuable that I own. I would already know that I didn't have to go to the bar every night, and do blow in the back seat of my best friend's car, and all the other crazy s**t we were doing way back when. What if there was peace then, and not craziness. But would I have ever found peace without fate, or whatever the heck it was? Maybe I could have had twenty extra years of freedom but I wouldn't have properly valued it because I hadn't so definitively kissed the bottom.

Think about it: what if you were twenty years younger, but knew what you know now? That would be kind of cool, right? What would you change? Would it be hard to change?

Tony used to say, "there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who take what they want, and those who wish they were the kind of people who just take what they want."

Maybe Tony was just an a**hole.

Sometimes

Sometimes, it is difficult to post on here.
Sometimes, it is not.
It's hard to tell, really, what kind of post day it will be.
Wake up and feel ready to take on the world.
Sleep, defeated, having accomplished not much of anything.
Feel ache, suddenly.
Feel nothing, then.
Sometimes, it is difficult to post on here.
Sometimes, it is not.
Sometimes, it is easy to forget about the past.
Sometimes, it is not.
Listen:
The past. The future.
There's not much more to it.
Sometimes, it's hard to tell, really, what kind of post day it will be.
Feel ache. The past.
Feel nothing. The future.
Feel suddenly. The future.
Then, feel forgetful of the past.

If and Then

If an establishment is open 24 hrs, then what does 6:00 mean?
If I am what I fear in my nightmares, then what am I when not asleep?
If there is a pause in conversation, then who will speak next?
If you are allergic to bees, then who will die first after you are stung, you or the bee?
If you hold your breath for as long as you can, then how much longer can you hold it past this point?
If you are absurd, then how real are you?
If you are make believe, then how do you imagine reality?

What it's like

I retreated into myself. I think I am okay now. It was so hot for October lately that I don't think I could function normally. But here's the thing: I thought about the Better Butter Blog, and what it was, and what it has become, and what if it was all over. And I said to myself, "no, Curt, it isn't time yet. One year, 365 posts, you must make it at least that far, or you are not a man", because I am very sensitive to any challenge to my manhood so sometimes that is the way I have to motivate myself.

So, for myself, I am going to "push my limits" and make it to 365. You are probably thinking, "it's just a silly blog, usually he doesn't even say anything at all, why is he acting like it's such a miracle to do that 365 times?" And I understand what you mean, but it really isn't that easy. Try it! You'll find out.

Think about taking your medications. You have to do it every day, and it's easy, but sometimes you forget! Or sometimes you are just not in the same house where your medications are at the time you need to take them (which may or may not be your fault) but anyways, there it is, you didn't take your medications, and now you're feeling lightheaded and a little out of control. See what I mean?

That's what it's like.

Sometimes

for no reason, you are filled
with a great sadness.
That is how it has been.
I delivered papers, with the
radio off. But even that
was not enough.

Look

"Tolerate the spasmodic, the obscure, the fragmentary, the failure."

-Virginia Woolf

It is difficult. Someone told me that "look" was a weak word. I said, You look because you are looking. You are not staring. You are not searching. But looking. That is what you are doing so that is what I am going to say because it is the most truthful of words for your action. This someone had nothing to say. This someone was at the grocery store. This someone said that maybe I should "talk" to someone. This someone said "talk" like it was a strong word, like it really meant something more than "talking."

This is what happened. Exactly.

Yesterday, I purchased an accordion. Today, I took pictures of the accordion. The accordion on my bed. The accordion on the living room floor. The accordion with the dogs. The accordion at the kitchen table, with it's gleaming keys and closed bellows. The accordion in the hallway. The accordion in the bathroom. And I took this film and I got it developed in one hour.

That one hour was the longest hour of my life outside of prison! By far! I ate french fries with shaking hands. I drank sweet tea that was much sweeter than it needed to be, imho.

When I got the pictures back, I went home and looked at them. I spread them out on the counter. I chose the very best one. The one of the accordion in an olive green armchair (came with the apartment). I cut this picture so that it fit into my wallet.

Afterwards, I went to the grocery store to buy heavy whipping cream to make an Accordion Butter! and in the checkout line, I said to the someone behind me, Look. I opened my wallet and this someone looked at the accordion in the olive green armchair. This someone said nothing about the accordion. This someone said, "You know, look is a weak word." That is what this someone said.

I flipped my wallet shut, but I should have flipped them off!

Squeezebox

I work for a newspaper, and people put things in the classifieds. The ad is there, today, and I call the number. No, I've never played accordion before, but I've always wanted to learn, and what's 20 bucks? Sometimes, you have a minute to sit around and look at the classifieds, and sometimes you have a little extra money in your pocket. Think of the things you've thrown 20 bucks away on. Boxes of cereal. Rollerblades. The cologne that that girl told you she liked. Dog food.

So I call the number. "Accordion...yes! It's here! Come see it!" So I go see it. Two young men answer the door. "You're Curt!" they say, and I am Curt, and I say "yes!" "The accordion!" they say, and I nod. "Come in!" they say, and I do. The apartment is small, and a mess, with instruments strewn about. "How long have you been playing?" they say, and I never have and I tell them so. They pick up some instruments and start playing and say, "try the accordion. Try before you buy!" they say. They are enthusiastic. The accordion looks beautiful, but it smells like a wet basement. I pick it up. I know my way around a keyboard, and I play a melody over their silly chord progression. They are intense! They say, "yes!" and "alright!' even though nothing is happening.

I give them the 20 bucks, and I say "thanks" , and "see you on the flipside!", which is what I say to people when I am leaving and I don't know what else to say.

And now I have an accordion.

Spotty

My internet has been spotty.
Why? I don't know why. It seems there is a spot. In my apartment. That denies access.
A spotty spot. It is above Warden and Regrette. Rather, Warden and Regrette are below this spotty spot. Look. Look at them both. So naive. They rest in the spotty spot, or maybe they are in denial of such a spot.
I wish I could stand under this spotty spot and become less Curt Jimenez, or, a more spotty Curt Jimenez, one you can see through, kind of, if you looked hard enough.

The people above me are walking around. They walk around, planting their heels down hard. It sounds like thunder. I wonder if they know about the storm they create above me. Maybe that's it. Maybe the spot is spotty because of the storm above me. That must be it.

And Warden and Regrette. They are waiting for the rain. Waiting.

Maybe in Wisconsin I Would Not Feel So Other

I found a Bluetooth this morning, and drove around pretending I was having important conversations with important people. I discussed my real estate holdings, and coordinated construction projects with private contractors. I walked into the coffee shop and said "excuse me" to the imaginary person on the other end of the line and then "sorry about that" when I started the conversation up again. I worked on planning the next Reedsburg Butter Festival, which is going to need to be extra awesome because the last one was cancelled because of flooding.

I was sitting on a bench and a young boy was watching me for a while and then told me that he knew that I wasn't talking to anybody.

He seemed pretty proud of himself for figuring this out.

Whatever.

Heart

It occurs to me this morning.

What does it mean to do something with your heart?

I am eating cereal. Chex. With a glass of milk. This seems indulgent. All this milk. But I also have toast with butter.

But it gets to me, this doing things with your heart.

Once I start thinking about it, really, really think about it, it doesn't make sense. The heart is just an organ and who chose to assign this organ such an important role? "Warden," I say. Warden doesn't lift his head, just his eyes. This makes him look interested in what I have to say. "Warden boy, who gave the heart so much responsibility?" I say. "Regrette," with her sad eyes, "Regrette, what do you do with your heart?" The dogs are just hungry. Not hungry philosophers.

Who said, "I am doing something. Ah, I am doing something, with my heart, it seems!" Who? Who was it that said this and told other people about it? And why did these people agree? Why not, "I am doing something with my teeth? Hair? Arm? Collar bone? Tongue? Left eye? Pinky toe? The first part of my small intestine? My lungs?!"

Who jumped off the bridge with this person?

Let me tell you. I've done many things and is it sad to say that I don't know whether or not I've done anything in my life with my heart?

I make butter. Better butter. But how do I know that I've made it with my heart? Will it taste differently? Look different. Feel different?

Tell me. I want to know.

Tell me with your heart.