Lit blog

[unpredictablebijou]

abject failure # 7,462

I will NOT be submitting anything for the Monthly Poetry Challenge. Working with the titles "The Last Time I Loved You" and "The Last Time I Moved You" yielded nothing at all that would have been either erotic or fun in any way. However, it did generate this, which does not qualify for the challenge but which does have the working title, "The Last Time I Moved You."


***


Dogs go deep when they die, and it is my job to find them and put them at the proper depth for the rest of the transformation to take place. It is a terrible thing, finding a body that once belonged to someone you love. It is a terrible thing looking for one, and not finding it, and knowing that you must find it, however reluctant you are. There is a sad urgency, and I am the one who is sent to look, because I seem to have the special focus that sees the gold fur, hiding among the tall brown grass, shaded by shifting leaves. Whether I like it or not, it is one of my strange skills.

I knew you might choose to drop your heavy body before the summer ended. I know you had to lay it down, eventually, even though it could still fight coyotes, still stretch gleefully to kiss me through the car window, still be a towel for me when I cried. It was so heavy, I understand. Knowing, as four-leggeds do, its essential unimportance, you were not afraid when you limped off toward the creek; it was as if you wanted to find a polite corner to leave this last bit of waste, off in the deep woods, as a courtesy.

This is the Real of it and there is nothing so Real as this: the body finishes dying without You, after You have gone, in stages, and properly returning to mushrooms. It becomes earth, slowly. We cover that process in earth as a courtesy. We draw the curtain to give the flesh its privacy as the Small Eaters do their gentle, necessary work.

No, you were not breathing. It was the chemicals of your transformation, turning you to air and water and earth, dismantling you efficiently, from all directions, as it must be, as it should be. The Man and I took turns being near your discarded body and I found I was not bitter or sad, really, as I did that most essential work. It is the oldest task, the most fundamental: the digging of a space in the ground, the measuring of a hole to fit a body. I believe I retched out all my grief, bent there among the trees, and came out clean, without disgust or fear. I believe you watched us work, embarrassed that you'd put us to this trouble. I averted my face as we rolled your body in, so I would always see the side of you with fur, the side I knew.

It is not a metaphor: there is never enough dirt to fill the hole. I brought a wheelbarrow, and we lay thick logs along the space to mark where you had finally made your escape. You were there, the last time I moved you, but it was not you that I moved. Invisibly, you leaned on my leg as I watched the Man roll the logs into place. Invisibly, you touched your nose to my palm to ask why I was making that strange sad howl. Invisibly, you howled with me, but you didn't really understand my grief.

 

[Tzara]

Pittsburgh

My experience with Pittsburgh, in no particular order:

• I-bar bridges. I love engineering.
• Andy.
• The Matress Factory.
• Primati Brothers sandwiches.
• The Jenny Holzer artwork scrolling its way about the convention center.
• Hey! Not one, but two, funicular railways. Sorry. Inclines.
• Whatever. Fabulous views.
• Some F. L. Wright houses that are, like, fairly close. Dude signed one building. How cool is that?
• A yellow Pirates hat. The one with the sweat stains, as it was in the 90s (°F, or > 32°C)
• The Cathedral of Learning at Pitt. Like, hey, the Norwegian Classroom, among others.
• Hertz changing our defective car out with no hassle other than the fact that we had to drive thirty miles to exchange it. Dickheads.
• Pittsburgh vs. Pittsburg. Get your act together, people.
• Pretty good bagels, actually.
• Pretty good bagels, actually.

 

[foehn2]

Tzara won the challenge, hands down.

But only because Bijou didn't enter. And now, I'm embarrassed. Oddly, it's not uncomfortable.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

the wolf/week two

The moon was full last night, I can hear his howl cutting through the morning mist rising from the river valley. Long clear and cold, looking, calling for what is not there. Not yet. He is alone here, the tall tree's to the south call his name and I have to run to find him. My lungs ache from the chase I know I can't let him go, he is not mine...even though my heart knows he will never really belong to anyone.

His body is wolf pure, there is no mistaking it. The only thing that betrays the blood is just enough malamute to take away the yellow in his eyes. He cannot hide behind those eyes, his heart is wolf. Stronger than any mere dog the rest of the pack tend to give him wide berth, they know he is different. They know he leads and they, are just followers.

Five miles a day, some days more of traveling together, I have to lead until he tires so I peddle until he yields. All his battles are hard won but anything good is never easy.
I understand the lore now, how just the spirit of the wolf can change people. I am blessed for his presence. I, am changed.

 

[Tzara]

Tzara won the challenge, hands down.

But only because Bijou didn't enter. And now, I'm embarrassed. Oddly, it's not uncomfortable.

Wait a minute. Are you saying I can't beat Bijou?

Geez. This new flogger was expensive and I'm not sure I can return it.

 

[Tathagata]

Wait a minute. Are you saying I can't beat Bijou?

Geez. This new flogger was expensive and I'm not sure I can return it.

"Sir, here's a nice stick to beat the lovely lady "

The Quiet Man - 1952

 

[Tathagata]

what a strange thing, now that I have retired due mostly to health and stress issues, to find that the meditation practice i do brings about feelings so unfamiliar that I need to take an anti anxiety pill or a few belts of
single malt to stop the panic

I have to relearn relaxation and joy and detachment
For 18 years I have hidden myself, put myself on the clock or work and doctors and pills
and now, the thing I hoped would bring me some level of equanimity does just that
and my mind, at this point, can't process it without sounding an alarm
as if I am straying into shallow waters

my mother once said of me, in my 20's " You haven't got a nervous bone in your body"
and now the thought of sitting and doing nothing feels as alien as biting my tongue would have felt then.

"If it was raining soup, the Irish would run outside with forks"
- Brendan Behan

that motherfucker ain't kidding

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Tzara won the challenge, hands down.

But only because Bijou didn't enter. And now, I'm embarrassed. Oddly, it's not uncomfortable.

I quote:

* Subject should be sexy.
**
Keep it lively, fun, and sexy!
**
Winners will be decided by the bathing suit portion of the competition at the end of the month.

**

So then.
I am not even vaguely qualified to enter the challenge. Sexy? NOT. Lively? Most definitely NOT. Fun? Most certainly NOT.

However, I would be willing to be a stand-in for Tzara in the bathing suit competition if he would like. I daresay I may look a teency bit better in a string bikini than he does. I could be wrong, though.

and TZ can beat me any time he likes. I'd even give him a few pointers and loan him my crop.

bj

 

[foehn2]

The moon was full last night, I can hear his howl cutting through the morning mist rising from the river valley. Long clear and cold, looking, calling for what is not there. Not yet. He is alone here, the tall tree's to the south call his name and I have to run to find him. My lungs ache from the chase I know I can't let him go, he is not mine...even though my heart knows he will never really belong to anyone.

His body is wolf pure, there is no mistaking it. The only thing that betrays the blood is just enough malamute to take away the yellow in his eyes. He cannot hide behind those eyes, his heart is wolf. Stronger than any mere dog the rest of the pack tend to give him wide berth, they know he is different. They know he leads and they, are just followers.

Five miles a day, some days more of traveling together, I have to lead until he tires so I peddle until he yields. All his battles are hard won but anything good is never easy.
I understand the lore now, how just the spirit of the wolf can change people. I am blessed for his presence. I, am changed.

That ain't nowhere near bad, neither. Bijou, can Sabina be in the swimsuit portion, too?

 

[unpredictablebijou]

That ain't nowhere near bad, neither. Bijou, can Sabina be in the swimsuit portion, too?

I certainly cannot imagine why you'd be asking me that question. I am a newbie and have no authority here whatsoever. Furthermore, I am only 3 1/2 years old. But if I HAD any authority, I would command, or at least suggest, that Sabina wear a swimsuit (or less) regardless of whether she's in a competition.

I am merely the evil grand vizier on a single meaningless thread. But you could always ask Her Superior and Sparkly Highness Sara if she'd grant an audience to Sabina in the lovely kingdom of MTVM's Nymphomania and bring her swimsuit along...

yes, by the way, that was stunning blog entry. There have been several fine ones of late. I've enjoyed reading this thread.

bijou

 

[foehn2]

This is the day... well, when it becomes Friday... that Blondie will be put down. I've been having good conversations lately with my ex, which was not the case for a number of years. But we share, still, a 13-year-old son, so it has been nice. However, understandably, today, she wasn't in a mood to talk. It's her horse. Yes, it came from reality. I don't like it a damn bit, either. When I've seen the horse, she seems to be fine. Normal, even. However, my ex has been giving her large quantities of Butte, to give her relief from the pains of advanced arthritis. The necessity of putting her down comes, partly, from the fact that she's a 1,000 pound animal, and if she stumbled and fell, it could be in an odd place, and then it would become very expensive, and much more traumatic.

My son is very sensitive to animal life. He's special that way. I went fishing once, and caught a little grass snake. I cut it up, to use it for bait, and he was most disturbed. I suppose that was my clue, to how he feels about such things.

I called him tonight. His good mother has explained to him all of the reasons, for all of this, but this is one of those things I think he needs both parents for. 27 years is pretty old, for a horse, and when she doesn't have medication, she doesn't do too well. My son told me he has been very tired, lately. I can't help thinking some of it is emotional strain.

This isn't fun, people, and it is real. But I like to think that my boy got something, out of my somewhat meaningless call to him. I told him that his mom explained it to him, and gave him all the good reasons. And she has, she is a wonderful mother. I guess I felt I needed to reinforce it. It's not like I myself am dying, as far as I know. But it's a hard thing.

Just blathering, here, here is where we come, to use words like "vizier" and I don't know, one of Tath's lovely words I can't recall at the moment. Maybe, sometimes, the hard thing is to remember that our lives are real. I think I can imagine it, sometimes; almost, I get there. We wake, arise from our beds, the sun shines on us, and we live, as best we can.

Until we die. And, I said it in the poem. I'll join Blondie, soon enough.

 

[foehn2]

Wait a minute. Are you saying I can't beat Bijou?

Geez. This new flogger was expensive and I'm not sure I can return it.

I have had an odd, a very odd thought. Should poetry be competitive? Oh, they have what they refer to as "competitions" -- and, despite my better efforts, I've won some of them.

But, growing older, getting milder, shouldn't poetry be like sunshine? Is one day better than another? On reflection, I don't really think so. It's just a joy, that we share with one another.

Isn't it?

And God, do Laurel and Manu hate us, because we obsess on poetry, and don't help their efforts very much?

Ah, so many questions, so little time.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I have had an odd, a very odd thought. Should poetry be competitive? Oh, they have what they refer to as "competitions" -- and, despite my better efforts, I've won some of them.

But, growing older, getting milder, shouldn't poetry be like sunshine? Is one day better than another? On reflection, I don't really think so. It's just a joy, that we share with one another.

Isn't it?

And God, do Laurel and Manu hate us, because we obsess on poetry, and don't help their efforts very much?

Ah, so many questions, so little time.

Competitions in poetry are an affront to the Fat Lady, who loves everyone equally as long as they are trying their best. And even when they're not. She is our biggest fan even when we're just fucking around and not trying at all. She's like that.

Competitions, I believe, are created by lower creatures (however well-intentioned) for basically selfish purposes. My own challenge was only made into a competition, that is, a situation which might ultimately include "winners" and "non-winners" because I think of this group as motivated by that sort of zero-sum solution, to a certain extent, and because I am willing to violate my larger and more noble principles to see if I can get these people to write about kinky sex. I just like to watch people write about kinky sex. That is my confession for the day.

And as I said earlier: no one hates us, or you. We are all busy drinking scotch and hate no one.

bijou

 

[foehn2]

You make me smile. It's not fair.

I understand, momentarily, that maybe, possibly, nobody hates me. That part I get, dramatically, now.

However, I have trouble understanding other things. Most of them have to do with cicadas and mesquite trees.

C'est la vie.

/tom

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

the wolf/week three

I want to watch him run free, through black dark trees and snow. He would disappear in the background, just a ghost. Quick and graceful, almost silent but for the wind.

Part of me is sad that I must do what I must do and change part of him. I have to make him listen for his own safety. If he crossed the line even once he would be put down immediately. He is illegal.
I lie and tell them he is what he is not because I see what they do not.
He is pack pure and simple.
Social beyond anything that I have seen before, intelligent to the point of reason, fiercely independant and loyal. You can tell when he has accepted you and you must be strong to walk next to him, he respects no weakness.
This, is where it all began.

 

[foehn2]

ok, you're boris pasternak's lover in a past life. don't gloat about it.

 

[WickedEve]

This morning I emptied the faded green flower pot. I told myself not to count the cigarette butts. There were twelve. I don't remember him going outside that many times last night. He came here with a bag of chains, spreader bars and floggers and cuffs and jim beam, but he can't remember to bring an ashtray. So I empty if before the kids get home. Hanna found butts in front of the house last summer. Someone was smoking beside my mailbox at night. She was very upset that someone had such a filthy habit. Hanna prayed for the sinner. So I emptied the flower pot, gargled and washed the sheets and anything that could be contaminated by smoker's breath.

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

I brought my camera to remember them all, even in such a sad state. You can feed them bread over the fence, the bears will do tricks for you. Big giant creatures some seem good natured and play but you can see the ones that would tear you to pieces. It's in the eyes, small brown eyes. They don't see well but the nose could sniff you out in a moment. They could smell your fear.

All that stands between us is a hot-wire and cattle fence with green T posts. I try not to think about it. How the reason people are supposed to play dead is because that is the only submission they would tolerate, the absolute submission of death.

 

[WickedEve]

I was on the toilet, peeing like a god, when a bug, an insignificant bug, crawled across the morning tiles. He was the last of his kind. I decided this must be true since I'd never seen such a bug. I remember when my ex died. Everyone said it was God's will and that he was in a better place. I don't think there is some god who wills pathetic people to suffer and die horribly. And what better place is there when you no longer exist? Heaven. Yeah, sure. I was going to let the bug live but he crept too close to my tub. I'm not fond of bathing with bugs. So, it was my will to send him to a better place.

 

[WickedEve]

Is Hugo the perfect man? I'm not sure, but I am impressed by his tools and raw materials. As I lounged on the deck, cuffed with a spreader bar between my ankles, Hugo busied himself with sandpaper and saws. Oh, there was a drill and metal bits and plastic odds and ends and leather scraps. Before noon, another spreader bar was ready and a leather flogger. The leather strips came in a bag that was "perfect for the horseman who needs to make repairs." I wanted Hugo to beat the flogger against some rocks. "How about the rocks under the swinging bridge?" I wanted the leather to be beaten soft before he beat me soft.

I was in TJ Maxx, buying black shirts on clearance. At least, I tried to go there in my mind while the stiff, new leather fell hard on my ass. A few times I ended up in a dark church. I finally found my way back to shopping and saw the perfect shirt. I reached out to grab it but I screamed so loudly that is disintegrated.

 

[Tzara]

Guys my age often have performance anxiety. As we get older, there are these biologic things that happen to us. Or more like they don't happen so good anymore. That's probably more accurate. No matter. It's why God (well, Pfizer) invented sildenafil. Pop a pill and whack that little problem down.

Whack may be an ill-chosen term. "Little" too. Carry on.

But now this. New problem: Blog anxiety.

I know, I know. Eve is the Queen of The Vivid Simile. I am not anxious about that. Just jealous. I am humble, even generous, in my praise for her clever phrasingliness.

Nor do I envy her (recently very lively) life experience. Well, only a little. Life is, of course, catch as catch can, and I am playing Right Field in a game that oftentimes I seem to be the only player. Not much chance, in these conditions, to test how well I cut down runners at the plate.

But shit. Here she is in her bathroom taking insect lives with the swaggering aplomb of Arnold Schwarznegger or Sean Connery. I mean, I find a bug, I want to gently lift it onto a postcard and shift its tiny life outside. And I'm a godless heathen, fer God's sake. God!

It's that I'm become so neuter in manly way, which is something I have just got to fix. Maybe I should punch somebody or buy a gun. Geez. I know at least that I'm now for squashing bugs, those whiney little exoskeletal wimps. And fuck chardonnay. My new drink is whiskey, straight out of the bottle, with cigars. Three or four of them. At the same time.

I'm really serious about this. I may even vote Republican.

 

[champagne1982]

<snip> with cigars. Three or four of them. At the same time.</snip>

I hope they're big cigars. Great, big, fat stogies, the kind ya wanna roll around your tongue.

 

[Sara Crewe]

And fuck chardonnay...

I think if you fuck something other than chardonnay, you won't need any pills.

 

[Tzara]

I hope they're big cigars. Great, big, fat stogies, the kind ya wanna roll around your tongue.

It's a manly thing. Smuggle some Cubans in from Vancouver. You go through the Lynden crossing (cow people, who am unsophisticated about us smugglers) and if questioned by the customs agent, your staunch response is "No, no. Those are Dominican. I took them up with me. Didn't know how long I was going to stay."

Note to Fool: If you've got a better way, PM me.

I must say that I am v-e-r-y disappointed how much things cost in the CDN. I got used to $1.50 on the dollar. This less than parity thing is quite upsetting.

 

[Tzara]

I think if you fuck something other than chardonnay, you won't need any pills.

I don't know. Red wines just seem to stain every thing.