The Crack In Everything

A Woman Is Talking to Death

Judy Grahn

Testimony in trials that never got heard

my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands

we were driving home slow
my love and I, across the long Bay Bridge,
one February midnight, when midway
over in the far left lane, I saw a strange scene:

one small young man standing by the rail,
and in the lane itself, parked straight across
as if it could stop anything, a large young
man upon a stalled motorcycle, perfectly
relaxed as if he’d stopped at a hamburger stand;
he was wearing a peacoat and levis, and
he had his head back, roaring, you
could almost hear the laugh, it
was so real.

“Look at that fool,” I said, “in the
middle of the bridge like that,” a very
womanly remark.

Then we heard the meaning of the noise
of metal on a concrete bridge at 50
miles an hour, and the far left lane
filled up with a big car that had a
motorcycle jammed on its front bumper, like
the whole thing would explode, the friction
sparks shot up bright orange for many feet
into the air, and the racket still sets
my teeth on edge.

When the car stopped we stopped parallel
and Wendy headed for the callbox while I
ducked across those 6 lanes like a mouse
in the bowling alley. “Are you hurt?” I said,
the middle-aged driver had the greyest black face,
“I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t stop, what happened?”

Then I remembered. “Somebody,” I said, “was on
the motorcycle.” I ran back,
one block? two blocks? the space for walking
on the bridge is maybe 18 inches, whoever
engineered this arrogance, in the dark
stiff wind it seemed I would
be pushed over the rail, would fall down
screaming onto the hard surface of
the bay, but I did not, I found the tall young man
who thought he owned the bridge, now lying on
his stomach, head cradled in his broken arm.

He had glasses on, but somewhere he had lost
most of his levis, where were they?
and his shoes. Two short cuts on his buttocks,
that was the only mark except his thin white
seminal tubes were all strung out behind; no
child left in him; and he looked asleep.

I plucked wildly at his wrist, then put it
down; there were two long haired women
holding back the traffic just behind me
with their bare hands, the machines came
down like mad bulls, I was scared, much
more than usual, I felt easily squished
like the earthworms crawling on a busy
sidewalk after the rain; I wanted to
And met the driver, walking back.

“The guy is dead.” I gripped his hand,
the wind was going to blow us off the bridge.

“Oh my God,” he said, “haven’t I had enough
trouble in my life?” He raised his head,
and for a second was enraged and yelling,
at the top of the bridge—”I was just driving
home!” His head fell down. “My God, and
now I’ve killed somebody.”

I looked down at my own peacoat and levis,
then over at the dead man’s friend, who
was howling and blubbering, what they would
call hysteria in a woman. “It isn’t possible”
he wailed, but it was possible, it was
indeed, accomplished and unfeeling, snoring
in its peacoat, and without its levis on.

He died laughing:    &nbsp    &nbsp that’s a fact.

I had a woman waiting for me,
in her car and in the middle of the bridge,
I’m frightened, I said.
I’m afraid, he said, stay with me, be
my witness—”No,” I said, “I’ll be your
witness—later,” and I took his name
and number, “but I can’t stay with you,
I’m too frightened of the bridge, besides
I have a woman waiting
and no license—
and no tail lights—”
So I left—
as I have left so many of my lovers.

we drove home
shaking. Wendy’s face greyer
than any white person’s I have ever seen.
maybe he beat his wife, maybe he once
drove taxi, and raped a lover
of mine—how to know these things?
we do each other in, that’s a fact.

who will be my witness?
death wastes our time with drunkenness
and depression
death, who keeps us from our
he had a woman waiting for him,
I found out when I called the number,
days later

“Where is he,” she said, “he’s disappeared.”
“He’ll be all right,” I said, “we could
have hit the guy as easy as anybody, it
wasn’t anybody’s fault, they’ll know that,”
women so often say dumb things like that,
they teach us to be sweet and reassuring,
and say ignorant things, because we don’t invent
the crime, the punishment, the bridges

that same week I looked into the mirror
and nobody was there to testify;
how clear, an unemployed queer woman
makes no witness at all,
nobody at all was there for
those two questions:     &nbsp what does
she do, and who is she married to?

I am the woman who stopped on the bridge
and this is the man who was there
our lovers teeth are white geese flying
above us, but we ourselves are
easily squished.

keep the woman small and weak
and off the street, and off the
bridges, that’s the way, brother
one day I will leave you there,
as I have left you there before,
working for death.

we found out later
what we left him to.
Six big policemen answered the call,
all white, and no child in them.
they put the driver up against his car
and beat the hell out of him.
What did you kill that poor kid for?
you mutherfucking nigger.
that’s a fact.

Death only uses violence
when there is any kind of resistance,
the rest of the time a slow
weardown will do.

They took him to 4 different hospitals
til they got a drunk test report to fit their
case, and held him five days in jail
without a phone call.
how many lovers have we left.

there are as many contradictions to the game,
as there are players.
a woman is talking to death,
though talk is cheap, and life takes a long time
to make
right. He got a cheesy lawyer
who had him cop a plea, 15 to 20
instead of life.
Did I say life?

the arrogant young man who thought he
owned the bridge, and fell asleep on it
he died laughing:     &nbsp    &nbsp that’s a fact.
the driver sits out his time
off the street somewhere,
does he have the most vacant of
eyes, will he die laughing?

They don’t have to lynch the women anymore

death sits on my doorstep
cleaning his revolver
death cripples my feet and sends me out
to wait for the bus alone,
then comes by driving a taxi.

the woman on our block with 6 young children
has the most vacant of eyes
death sits in her bedroom, loading
his revolver

they don’t have to lynch the women
very often anymore, although
they used to—the lord and his men
went through the villages at night, beating &
killing every woman caught
the European witch trials took away
the independent people; two different villages
—after the trials were through that year—
had left in them, each—
one living woman:

What were those other women up to? had they
run over someone? stopped on the wrong bridge?
did they have teeth like
any kind of geese, or children
in them?

This woman is a lesbian be careful

In the military hospital where I worked
as a nurse’s aide, the walls of the halls
were lined with howling women
waiting to deliver
or to have some parts removed.
One of the big private rooms contained
the general’s wife, who needed
a wart taken off her nose.
we were instructed to give her special attention
not because of her wart or her nose
but because of her husband, the general.

As many women as men die, and that’s a fact.

At work there was one friendly patient, already
claimed, a young woman burnt apart with X-ray,
she had long white tubes instead of openings;
rectum, bladder, vagina—I combed her hair, it
was my job, but she took care of me as if
nobody’s touch could spoil her.

ho ho death, ho death
have you seen the twinkle in the dead woman’s eye?

When you are a nurse’s aide
someone suddenly notices you
and yells about the patient’s bed,
and tears the sheets apart so you
can do it over, and over
while the patient waits
doubled over in her pain
for you to make the bed again
and no one ever looks at you,
only at what you do not do

Here, general, hold this soldier’s bed pan
for a moment, hold it for a year—
then we’ll promote you to making his bed.
we believe you wouldn’t make such messes

if you had to clean up after them.

that’s a fantasy.
this woman is a lesbian, be careful.

When I was arrested and being thrown out
of the military, the order went out: dont anybody
speak to this woman, and for those three
long months, almost nobody did;     &nbsp the dayroom, when
I entered it, fell silent til I had gone; they
were afraid, they knew the wind would blow
them over the rail, the cops would come,
the water would run into their lungs.
Everything I touched
was spoiled. They were my lovers, those
women, but nobody had taught us how to swim.
I drowned, I took 3 or 4 others down
when I signed the confession of what we
had done     &nbsp    &nbsp together.

No one will ever speak to me again.

I read this somewhere; I wasn’t there:
in WWII the US army had invented some floating
amphibian tanks, and took them over to
the coast of Europe to unload them,
the landing ships all drawn up in a fleet,
and everybody watching. Each tank had a
crew of 6 and there were 25 tanks.
The first went down the landing planks
and sank, the second, the third, the
fourth, the fifth, the sixth went down
and sank. They weren’t supposed
to sink, the engineers had
made a mistake.     &nbsp The crews looked around
wildly for the order to quit,
but none came, and in the sight of
thousands of men, each 6 crewmen
saluted his officers, battened down
his hatch in turn, and drove into the
sea, and drowned, until all 25 tanks
were gone.     &nbsp did they have vacant
eyes, die laughing, or what?     &nbsp what
did they talk about, those men,
as the water came in?

was the general their lover?

A Mock Interrogation

Have you ever held hands with a woman?

Yes, many times—women about to deliver, women about to
have breasts removed, wombs removed, miscarriages, women
having epileptic fits, having asthma, cancer, women having
breast bone marrow sucked out of them by nervous or in-
different interns, women with heart condition, who were
vomiting, overdosed, depressed, drunk, lonely to the point
of extinction: women who had been run over, beaten up.
deserted, starved. women who had been bitten by rats; and
women who were happy, who were celebrating, who were
dancing with me in large circles or alone, women who were
climbing mountains or up and down walls, or trucks or roofs
and needed a boost up, or I did; women who simply wanted
to hold my hand because they liked me, some women who
wanted to hold my hand because they liked me better than

These were many women?

Yes.     &nbsp    &nbsp many.

What about kissing? Have you kissed any women?

I have kissed many women.

When was the first woman you kissed with serious feeling?

The first woman ever I kissed was Josie, who I had loved at
such a distance for months. Josie was not only beautiful,
she was tough and handsome too. Josie had black hair and
white teeth and strong brown muscles. Then she dropped
out of school unexplained. When she came she came
back for one day only, to finish the term, and there was a
child in her. She was all shame, pain, and defiance. Her eyes
were dark as the water under a bridge and no one would
talk to her, they laughed and threw things at her. In the
afternoon I walked across the front of the class and looked
deep into Josie’s eyes and I picked up her chin with my
hand, because I loved her, because nothing like her trouble
would ever happen to me, because I hated it that she was
pregnant and unhappy, and an outcast. We were thirteen.

You didn’t kiss her?

How does it feel to be thirteen and having a baby?

You didn’t actually kiss her?

Not in fact.

You have kissed other women?

Yes, many, some of the finest women I know, I have kissed.
women who were lonely, women I didn’t know and didn’t
want to, but kissed because that was a way to say yes we are
still alive and loveable, though separate, women who recog-
nized a loneliness in me, women who were hurt, I confess to
kissing the top a 55 year old woman’s head in the snow in
boston, who was hurt more deeply that I have ever been
hurt, and I wanted her as a very few people have wanted
me—I wanted her and me to own and control and run the
city we lived in, to staff the hospital I know would mistreat
her, to drive the transportation system that had betrayed
her, to patrol the streets controlling the men who would
murder or disfigure or disrupt us, not accidentally with
machines, but on purpose, because we are not allowed out
on the street alone—

Have you ever committed any indecent acts with women?

Yes, many. I am guilty of allowing suicidal women to die
before my eyes or in my ears or under my hands because I
thought I could do nothing, I am guilty of leaving a prosti-
tute who held a knife to my friend’s throat to keep us from
leaving, because we would not sleep with her, we thought
she was old and fat and ugly; I am guilty of not loving her
who needed me; I regret all the women I have not slept with
or comforted, who pulled themselves away from me for lack
of something I had not the courage to fight for, for us, our
life, our planet, our city, our meat and potatoes, our love.
These are indecent acts, lacking courage, lacking a certain
fire behind the eyes, which is the symbol, the raised fist, the
sharing of resources, the resistance that tells death he will
starve for lack of the fat of us, our extra. Yes I have com-
mitted acts of indecency with women and most of them were
acts of omission. I regret them bitterly.

Bless this day oh cat our house

“I was allowed to go
3 places growing up,” she said—
“3 places, no more.
there was a straight line from my house
to school, a straight line from my house
to church, a straight line from my house
to the corner store.”
her parents thought something might happen to her.
but nothing     &nbsp ever     &nbsp did.

my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me
my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands
we are the river of life and the fat of the land
death, do you tell me I cannot touch this woman?
if we use each other up
on each other
that’s a little bit less for you
a little bit less for you, ho
death, ho ho death.

Bless this day oh cat our house
help me be not such a mouse
death tells the woman to stay home
and then breaks in the window.

I read this somewhere, I wasn’t there:
In feudal Europe, if a woman committed adultery
her husband would sometimes tie her
down, catch a mouse and trap it
under a cup on her bare belly, until
it gnawed itself out, now are you
afraid of mice?

Dressed as I am, a young man once called
me names in Spanish

a woman who talks to death
is a dirty traitor

inside a hamburger joint and
dressed as I am, a young man once called me
names in Spanish
then he called me queer and slugged me.
first I thought the ceiling had fallen down
but there was the counterman making a ham
sandwich, and there was I spread out on his

For God’s sake, I said when
I could talk, this guy is beating me up
can’t you call the police or something,
can’t you stop him? he looked up from
working on his sandwich, which was my
sandwich, I had ordered it. He liked
the way I looked. “There’s a pay phone
right across the street” he said.

I couldn’t listen to the Spanish language
for weeks afterward, without feeling the
most murderous of rages, the simple
association of one thing to another,
so damned simple.

The next day I went to the police station
to become an outraged citizen
Six big policemen stood in the hall,
all white and dressed as they do
they were well pleased with my story, pleased
at what had gotten beat out of me, so
I left them laughing, went home fast
and locked my door.
For several nights I fantasized the scene
again, this time grabbing a chair
and smashing it over the bastard’s head,
killing him. I called him a spic, and
killed him. My face healed, his didnt
no child in me.

now when I remember I think:
maybe he was Josie’s baby.
all the chickens come home to roost.
all of them.

Death and disfiguration

One Christmas eve my lovers and I
we left the bar, driving home slow
there was a woman lying in the snow
by the side of the road. She was wearing
a bathrobe and no shoes, where were
her shoes? she had turned the snow
pink, under her feet, she was an Asian
woman, didnt speak much English, but
she said a taxi driver beat her up
and raped her, throwing her out of his
what on earth was she doing there
on a street she helped to pay for
but doesn’t own?
doesn’t she know to stay home?

I am a pervert, therefore I’ve learned
to keep my hands to myself in public
but I was so drunk that night,
I actually did something loving
I took her in my arms, this woman,
Until she could breathe right, and
my friends who are perverts too
they touched her too
we all touched her.
“You’re going to be all right”
we lied. She started to cry
“I’m 55 years old” she said
and that said everything.

Six big policemen answered the call
no child in them.
they seemed afraid to touch her,
then grabbed her like a corpse and heaved her
on their metal stretcher into the van,
crashing and clumsy.
She was more frightened than before.
they were cold and bored.
‘don’t leave me’ she said.
‘she’ll be all right’ they said.
we left, as we have left all of our lovers
as all lovers leave all lovers
much too soon to get the real loving done.

a mock interrogation

Why did you get in the cab with him, dressed as you are?

I wanted to go somewhere.

Did you know what the cab driver might do
if you got into the cab with him?

I just wanted to go somewhere.

How many times did you
get into the cab with him?

I dont remember.

If you dont remember, how do you know it happened to

Hey you death

ho and ho poor death
our lovers teeth are white geese flying above us
our lovers muscles are rope ladders under our hands
even though no women     &nbsp yet go down to the sea in ships
except in their dreams.

only the arrogant invent a quick and meaningful end
for themselves, of their own choosing.
everyone else knows how very slow it happens
how the woman’s existence bleeds out her years,
how the child shoots up at ten and is arrested and old
how the man carries a murderous shell within him
and passes it on.

we are the fat of the land, and
we all have our list of casualties

to my lovers I bequeath
the rest of my life

I want nothing left of me for you, ho death
except some fertilizer
for the next batch of us
who do not hold hands with you
who do not embrace you
who try not to work for you
or sacrifice themselves or trust
or believe you, ho ignorant
death, how do you know
we happened to you?

wherever our meat hangs on our own bones
for our own use
your pot is so empty
death, ho death
you shall be poor

From Work of a Common Woman

About A Lucky Man Who Made the Grade

Here, general, hold this soldier’s bed pan
for a moment, hold it for a year—
then we’ll promote you to making his bed.
we believe you wouldn’t make such messes

if you had to clean up after them.

– Judy Grahn, A Woman Is Talking To Death

I’m sick of this irresponsible bullshit chatter about appointing a war czar. We have one. It is the President of the United States, acting in his capacity as Commander In Chief.

If the person holding this position doesn’t wish to fulfill its responsibilities, that person is free to fucking step down.

This Flat Old Earth Is In Your Gentle Hands

We at Poor Impulse Control Secret Headquarters take one step forward and fall two steps back in our Iron March to Technical Adequacy. We get the main site back, we lose the actual artist pages. We set up something in the template, then it disappears. It’s not Siobhan’s fault PIC leaks like an old oil barge. That might be the fault of the original designer who constantly made the mistake of saying, “Hey, Ta, what do you think of all this work I’ve done for free?” And then I said, “My stars, that’s shiny.” In other words, because I don’t code, bad code is my fault. Well, fuck me. Slainte!

Today, I put the above image in that column off to the right and it may be there now or not, depending on your browser. I get a broken link now but I could see it from work. Prosit!

I’m all for NTodd’s Incivility Pledge. See?

1. We take responsibility for our own words and reserve the right to call stupid people names when they fucking annoy us.

2. We won’t tell anybody to fuck off if we wouldn’t tell them to fuck off in person.

3. If tensions escalate, we will start a metablogpissingmatch, if only to generate traffic.

4. When we believe someone is unfairly attacking another, we escalate and get more personal and nasty.

5. We allow anonymous comments because who the fuck really cares? It’s a goddamned blog.

6. We troll other sites for shits and giggles.

7. We encourage parody sites because if you can’t take a fucking joke, you’re a goddamned moran and shouldn’t be blogging.

Moreover, I promise to be a fresher hell, a foul-mouthed free-range freak with a fine manicure, a thing that goes bump in the day and night. I’m not going to get religion or take myself more seriously – no, those days are waaaaay over. I won’t sit down and behave because it’s ladylike. I can’t wait to dye my little old lady hair a color that clashes with tropical fish. Naroc!

Civility as defined by Bill O’Reilly is censorship. The solution to questionable speech is more free speech, not less. Plus, there are an awful lot of people I’ve told to fuck off in person. Salut!

To Hear the Words That Keep Falling

Thing 2, left, is actually the smaller and pricklier of the kittens. When I take out a camera, Thing 2 usually makes herself scarce. This time, Thing 1 heard the whirr of camera start up and started to bolt. A second later, the larger, friendlier cat, the one on the right, was off in a cloud of dust.

Things are not always as they appear. Or are they?

Man Shot By Puppy Arrested On Animal Cruelty Charge

You may feel a little pressure. I know I do.

PENSACOLA, FL (AP) – An animal cruelty charge was filed against a man who shot himself when one of the puppies he was preparing to shoot made the gun discharge, deputies said. Jerry Allen Bradford, 37, of Pensacola, was arrested Friday and held on $1,500 bond, the Escambia County Sheriff’s Office said.

Hell, I didn’t even know we were arming puppies. I feel so out of the loop!

Bradford was holding two puppies, trying to shoot them in the head with a .38-caliber revolver on Sept. 8 when one wiggled, sending a bullet into Bradford’s wrist, deputies said. Bradford had shot and killed three puppies before he was wounded. Bradford said he decided to shoot the 3-month-old puppies because he couldn’t find another home for the shepherd-mix dogs, the sheriff’s office said.

Deputies found three of the puppies in a shallow grave outside Bradford’s home. The other four appeared to be in good health and were taken by Escambia County Animal Control.

Now I’m sorry I’m not arming puppies. There’s one last thing:

The shepherd-mix pup that “fired” the bullet was renamed Trigger.

Good doggy! Bad human! Can we talk now about getting Mom fixed?

No Other Place I’d Rather Be

Yesterday, I cleverly drove to work from one side of the river to the other. A few hours later, rising flood waters prevented my boss from making an almost identical, embarrassingly brief commute. Three of the five routes across the river closed in rapid succession, and the route to a fourth quickly became impassable. I calculated the best path out of town to Route 1 North and took it. When I arrived home safe and dry half an hour later, it seemed like little short of a miracle. Maybe it was pretty good guess work and extraordinary luck, I can’t say; however, I felt strong enough to face the task I’ve avoided for a week: reading and answering condolence cards.

Siobhan’s mother died when Siobhan was 19. I assure you that Siobhan, whose flawless complexion is doubtless the result of keeping a hyperactive portrait artist locked in her attic, hasn’t seen the sunny side of 30 in an eye-rolling while.

Tata: We’re having a monsoon. I’m going to read condolence cards. I’m going to do it.
Siobhan: I have a drawer full of them.
Tata: You what? I haven’t opened mine.
Siobhan: Me neither.
Tata: Okay, just to be clear: you have a drawer full of condolence cards from your mother’s death before we met?
Siobhan: Yes. I despair of ever answering them.
Tata: I…think I hear my mother calling me.

Oddly enough, it was Mom, Queen of Procrastination.

Mom: I understand I have new grandkitties and wish to see them.
Tata: Perhaps you’d like to wait until visiting Rancho Rococo no longer requires the assistance of rugged rescue personnel.
Mom: Within the week, then. What are you doing?
Tata: Contemplating answering a pile of condolence cards.
Mom: You should do that. You don’t want that hanging over your head.
Tata: Did you just…did you just advise me to do something in a timely manner?
Mom: Could be.
Tata: Impostor! Put my real mother on the phone!

I sliced open the envelopes and read each card. My co-workers in the giant library system sent individual and department cards, where handfuls of thoughtful people signed at improvised angles. A few friends sent cards but most of my local friends had moved couches and stocked my refrigerator and collected my mail, so a card would been a bit much. I owe so many people for helping me concentrate on what I had to do in Virginia, and for kind words, and now, people who barely know me rush up to squeeze me and coo. My impulse is to punch them. Instead, I thank them absently and hide under my desk.

With all my staring into space and complaining, writing responses took all afternoon and some of the evening. Then I wrote condolence cards for four people I knew who’d lost a husband, a child and a father in the last month. I felt as if the fine powder Dad’s death ground me to had been tossed into the wind and disappeared. This morning, I put stamps on the envelopes and mailed them.

Somehow this is certain to bring May flowers.

Radiate Everything You Are

Thing Two.

It’s raining. The northeast is in the grip of a nor’easter. Siobhan and I intended to go schmatta shopping but postponed. The kittens are sleeping. I’m thinking of dressing up reasonably rainproof and going out for a hike in the wilds of wet suburbia. Or maybe not: Jacques Pepin is on at 2, and it’s always possible I might learn something.

No, really. It could happen.

Playing on Daddy’s cookbooks. Yes, I put away the cookbooks and gave them the box.

Darla is very excited about new cats. In my family, they constitute “grandkitties.” This afternoon:

Darla: Did they tell you their names yet?
Tata: Not yet. It’s tempting to go ahead and name them in relation to one another but they’re so different it’d be a mistake.
Darla: You might do that anyway. Like what?
Tata: Harriet and Sojourner. Krystal and Alexis. Joan and Jackie. Lena and Dorothy. Billie and Dinah. I thought for a while we could be Josie and the Pussycats if I could be Val, the smart one. Daria suggested Cirrus and Nimbus.
Darla: They’d have to be white and fluffy!
Tata: I said Igneous and Sedimentary.
Darla: Rock and Hard Place.
Tata: Scylla and Charybdis. Pride and Prejudice.
Darla: But not Sense and Sensibility!
Tata: Heavens, no! They’re much too young for that!

Thing One surveys the landscape.

Darla and I talk often. Yesterday:

Tata: How about Demeter and Hecate?
Darla: Demeter and who?
Tata: Hecate. It’s got a great beat!
Darla: Agggggggh! That’s a terrible pun! When I made puns, your Dad would say, “That’s awful! Leave the room! One more like that and it’s back to Canada with you!”
Tata: I made a joke like that one day and he was annoyed I’d reached for the easy punchline. He said, “It’s time for you to go home now!” I said, “I know the rule, Daddy: Use a pun. Go to jail.”

Being the kitten is exhausting!

Thing One, left, likes to rub her tiny face against mine and put her paws around my neck. She likes to kiss me, but she doesn’t like when Thing Two comes anywhere near me. I have to go to Thing Two and scritch her. This afternoon, between phone calls back and forth regarding the funeral home’s most recent fuck up, I lay on my bed so the cats could climb on me. Thing One lay across my neck, purring sweetly. Thing Two I could hear prowling around the room but couldn’t see until I had occasion to look at the floor near my head. Finally, she lay down at my feet, but by then, I was so pissed at the hillbilly attempt at extortion, I had to get up. Thing Two opened her eyes for a moment when I took the picture, but they’re both sleeping again. This is a relief because it demonstrates the kittens are relaxing into being here, together and with me. I’ll worry less about going to work all day tomorrow and leaving them alone.

No, come to think of it, I’ll worry about them just because I can, and that’s nice.

Everything Is Easy ‘Cause Of You

Do you know why I am so happy I can barely speak in a register audible to the human ear?


They came with doofy Catholic school girl names I can’t stand.

I’m pretty sure they’ll tell me their names.

In the meantime, let’s call this impetuous gal Thing One.

She’s very affectionate. She licked my nose.

Thing One!

She has blue-green eyes. It doesn’t look that way, but I’m not much of a photographer.

It took her mere moments to warm up to me, if by “moments” I mean about an hour.

At the time of this picture, the kittens were walking all over my apartments, in every direction, looking at everything.

Black kittens on a brothel-red couch: ooh la la!

This is Thing One, deciding I might be okay to play with. Maybe.

Note the papers for the vet. Both kittens are already fixed.

Thing One bears a striking resemblance to Larry, the Little Black Cat Once Bent On Stealing Your Soul.

Meet Thing Two.

Her eyes really are that amazing, intense orange color.

I introduced her to all she could see outside the bedroom and living room windows.

She took a little longer to warm up to new kitten toys, the new apartment and the new human.

Their personalities are quite different.

Thing Two!

It’s a beautiful day and the squirrels nibble, bound and chase one another.

Thing Two, I was warned, would scarf down all wet food I put out for both pussycats.

She doesn’t like to be picked up.

While lovely Thing Two monitored the local fauna –

– equally lovely Thing One subdued me.

These girls are tall and lanky. They weigh so little I hardly know what to make of them.

When she walked all over me, I hardly felt it. When she decided to lie on my head, I couldn’t object.

Couldn’t breathe much, either. Didn’t mind.

As I write this, a kitten is falling asleep on my lap.

As for the superstitious SHHHHHH! of yesterday, an explanation: whenever I tell people what my favorite show is, that show gets canceled. It’s funny, right? Yeah, sure. It’s funny. While I was in Virginia, I discussed my favorite show with Darla’s parents. Last weekend, I noticed it wasn’t on the schedule anymore.

I also say that when I talk about things in the works they don’t happen.

I really needed this to happen. And now it has.

Thank you. I am so far beyond happy I had to share.