Speaking of passing showers:
While I was trying to use my own
this morning, this great set of
instructions by Ian Frazier came
into my mind.
http://www.newyorker.com/shouts/content/articles/070108sh_shouts
It's also from the January 8, 2007,
The New Yorker magazine, to which
I pointed you in an earlier post. What
a great issue that was!
If you know Ian Frazier, you may
have already seen it. If you haven't
seen it, you know that you're in for
a treat.
If you don't know Ian Frazier, I think
you also are in for a treat. However,
he may be an acquired taste.
Please post a comment, and tell me
whether you like him or not.
Of course, those who shower without
curtains will most likely not be
interested.
For them, I promise a later tale of
taking showers with cats.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
When She Was a Kitten
When M&M was a very young
kitten, she was most tractable
and cuddly. But then in late
summer, she became very
aggressive.
She would bite if you began
to pet her on your lap.
She would chase after you
and leap for your hand,
and bite you, drawing blood,
and then bound away in
apparent delight.
This was play. It was clear
that she did not intend to
hurt you. She'd had no cat
mother to teach her that
biting is not acceptable.
I never did manage
to teach her not to do it.
But, after some years, she
has apparently outgrown
these games.
I was so frustrated in August,
1998, that I put my emotions
into a bit of verse.
Here it is (told you
I'd post a little verse
from time to time).
THE WILD KITTEN
I think about how beautiful she is:
Her soft black coat.
And the intent demand
I see within her staring hazel eyes.
Her muscles aiming light feet
At my hand.
I think about her swift, her fluid
Motion.
The sable, changing
Shape she can express.
The gleam of tide-pool eyes--
From what far ocean?
One leap,
And she has placed
Her fanged caress.
Back in the springtime,
Lost.
Her eight-ounce heft--
Only soy milk and me
To mother her.
Now hypodermic teeth
Return my gift
As I receive
Her weight of shining fur.
What is the ratio here of eye
To tooth,
Of fur to skull, I think,
On this cat face?
How can I balance
Between love and truth:
Unlink
Pain from this grace?
--Mary Bull,
August 17, 1998
kitten, she was most tractable
and cuddly. But then in late
summer, she became very
aggressive.
She would bite if you began
to pet her on your lap.
She would chase after you
and leap for your hand,
and bite you, drawing blood,
and then bound away in
apparent delight.
This was play. It was clear
that she did not intend to
hurt you. She'd had no cat
mother to teach her that
biting is not acceptable.
I never did manage
to teach her not to do it.
But, after some years, she
has apparently outgrown
these games.
I was so frustrated in August,
1998, that I put my emotions
into a bit of verse.
Here it is (told you
I'd post a little verse
from time to time).
THE WILD KITTEN
I think about how beautiful she is:
Her soft black coat.
And the intent demand
I see within her staring hazel eyes.
Her muscles aiming light feet
At my hand.
I think about her swift, her fluid
Motion.
The sable, changing
Shape she can express.
The gleam of tide-pool eyes--
From what far ocean?
One leap,
And she has placed
Her fanged caress.
Back in the springtime,
Lost.
Her eight-ounce heft--
Only soy milk and me
To mother her.
Now hypodermic teeth
Return my gift
As I receive
Her weight of shining fur.
What is the ratio here of eye
To tooth,
Of fur to skull, I think,
On this cat face?
How can I balance
Between love and truth:
Unlink
Pain from this grace?
--Mary Bull,
August 17, 1998
Friday, January 19, 2007
Linking Around the World
On this winter morning, after
hurricane-force winds have battered
the UK and much of Europe, I am
pondering the way I am linked
emotionally now to so many people
whom I have never met in person.
I am waiting for people that I know in
England, in the Netherlands, in
Germany, and in other northwestern
European places, to check in on the
mailing lists where I read them.
It's a sort of identification that's
closer than the empathy one feels
with complete strangers when
their troubles are reported in
the news media.
But there would be little I could
do to help, if any of these e-mail
acquaintances and friends were
coping with serious problems in
the aftermath of those flooding tides
and hurricane force winds.
I was equally helpless when
Hurricane Celia all but destroyed
my home town in 1970, when my
mother was still living there.
And yet, she managed just fine
without me. Her house stood, her
gas stove was working, and she
was industriously feeding all her
neighbors who were not so lucky.
So, one trusts in others'
capabilities to look after
themselves. And enjoys their on-line companionship,
when they do write in, from
time to time.
And now it's almost dawn here, and
my little black cat is taking an after-
breakfast nap behind me,
while I savor my incredible good
luck to have her as a housemate
and to be blessed with this
fine glass of orange juice in a
warm house when the outdoor
temperatures reflect the aftermath
of a passing cold front here, also.
hurricane-force winds have battered
the UK and much of Europe, I am
pondering the way I am linked
emotionally now to so many people
whom I have never met in person.
I am waiting for people that I know in
England, in the Netherlands, in
Germany, and in other northwestern
European places, to check in on the
mailing lists where I read them.
It's a sort of identification that's
closer than the empathy one feels
with complete strangers when
their troubles are reported in
the news media.
But there would be little I could
do to help, if any of these e-mail
acquaintances and friends were
coping with serious problems in
the aftermath of those flooding tides
and hurricane force winds.
I was equally helpless when
Hurricane Celia all but destroyed
my home town in 1970, when my
mother was still living there.
And yet, she managed just fine
without me. Her house stood, her
gas stove was working, and she
was industriously feeding all her
neighbors who were not so lucky.
So, one trusts in others'
capabilities to look after
themselves. And enjoys their on-line companionship,
when they do write in, from
time to time.
And now it's almost dawn here, and
my little black cat is taking an after-
breakfast nap behind me,
while I savor my incredible good
luck to have her as a housemate
and to be blessed with this
fine glass of orange juice in a
warm house when the outdoor
temperatures reflect the aftermath
of a passing cold front here, also.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Domestic Felines and Their Human Companions
This is about how my little black cat came to live with me.
And it may remind others of their experiences with domestic felines. If so, perhaps they will be kind enough to tell me about some of those by adding comments, below.
Imagine yourself crouching in your bathtub under a ton of blankets and pillows while a roar like a freight train and a pounding on the roof like a hundred jackhammers fills your ears.
Imagine emerging out your front door fifteen minutes later to view a yard white with large hailstones, tree branches everywhere, a hole in the roof of the house across the street, and shattered windows in adjoining houses.
This was mid-April, 1998. Fast-forward to mid- May, 1998, and imagine that you have hired a contractor to repair your own roof. Imagine that contractor arriving for work with a small scrap of black fur in a milk crate.
The scrap of black fur was Midnight Mary, according to the contractor. He found her abandoned in a paper sack in a shed, in a resort area 80 miles away, where he was also doing storm-related repairs.
His ploy was to name her after me, as ammunition to persuade me to adopt her. He said his four-year-old was going to kill her, wagging her around by the neck. And besides, she wouldn't eat anything for him and his wife.
I picked up the little sleeping mite. She barely filled my palm, curled around in it. Stretched out, with her nose on my middle finger and her tail ending where the palm joins the wrist, she hardly registered any weight to my senses at all.
"Drive me to the vet's?" I asked the contractor.
There she weighed in at 7 ounces and measured 7 inches long.
The vet estimated her age at 2 weeks, from her teeth, and the fact that her blue eyes were open.
He said Midnight Mary was too long a name and her name would be M&M.
M&M has a little white patch on the dark fur of her chest that can easily stand in for the M&M candy logo. So she's been M&M ever since.
I raised her on kitten formula from a doll bottle the vet supplied (along with the formula). I set the alarm clock for every 2 hours, round the clock. A week later she had doubled her weight.
That summer I was playing in a community band. M&M slept on my lap at rehearsals, so I could feed her on schedule. She slept through the noise of crashing cymbals behind me and through the sounds of the horn section in which I was playing fourth horn.
She would wake up to eat--about the time we took a break--and would accept being held and petted by my fellow players after rehearsals.
The band director's wife looked after her at the first couple of outdoor twilight concerts.
After that, she was old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours. But I brought her to rehearsals all summer long.
She sleeps on the bed beside me. She drinks from the kitchen tap. She's outgrown wanting to interfere with my fingers on the computer keyboard, but whatever room I am in, there she is also.
She has several dozen cat-speak sounds and an equal number of cat gestures that she has taught me the meaning of.
My favorite is a short hum in her throat, like the beginning of a purr, but higher pitched.
That signifies her pleasure when she has understood that I know what she was telling me she wanted and am moving to grant her wish. Like opening the refrigerator door to take out the Pounce treat.
Or taking up the soda straw to toss it for her to chase.
Or bending down to clean the just-dirtied litter box.
Oh, yes, I am indeed informed every time and immediately, when that litter box becomes dirty.
She likes music. And she likes for me to read to her. Or talk on the telephone. As near as I can make out, she believes I am talking to her.
More adventures of M&M will be forthcoming, if I am encouraged to write them.
Or probably even if I am not so encouraged, except by my own self.
Stay tuned.
And it may remind others of their experiences with domestic felines. If so, perhaps they will be kind enough to tell me about some of those by adding comments, below.
Imagine yourself crouching in your bathtub under a ton of blankets and pillows while a roar like a freight train and a pounding on the roof like a hundred jackhammers fills your ears.
Imagine emerging out your front door fifteen minutes later to view a yard white with large hailstones, tree branches everywhere, a hole in the roof of the house across the street, and shattered windows in adjoining houses.
This was mid-April, 1998. Fast-forward to mid- May, 1998, and imagine that you have hired a contractor to repair your own roof. Imagine that contractor arriving for work with a small scrap of black fur in a milk crate.
The scrap of black fur was Midnight Mary, according to the contractor. He found her abandoned in a paper sack in a shed, in a resort area 80 miles away, where he was also doing storm-related repairs.
His ploy was to name her after me, as ammunition to persuade me to adopt her. He said his four-year-old was going to kill her, wagging her around by the neck. And besides, she wouldn't eat anything for him and his wife.
I picked up the little sleeping mite. She barely filled my palm, curled around in it. Stretched out, with her nose on my middle finger and her tail ending where the palm joins the wrist, she hardly registered any weight to my senses at all.
"Drive me to the vet's?" I asked the contractor.
There she weighed in at 7 ounces and measured 7 inches long.
The vet estimated her age at 2 weeks, from her teeth, and the fact that her blue eyes were open.
He said Midnight Mary was too long a name and her name would be M&M.
M&M has a little white patch on the dark fur of her chest that can easily stand in for the M&M candy logo. So she's been M&M ever since.
I raised her on kitten formula from a doll bottle the vet supplied (along with the formula). I set the alarm clock for every 2 hours, round the clock. A week later she had doubled her weight.
That summer I was playing in a community band. M&M slept on my lap at rehearsals, so I could feed her on schedule. She slept through the noise of crashing cymbals behind me and through the sounds of the horn section in which I was playing fourth horn.
She would wake up to eat--about the time we took a break--and would accept being held and petted by my fellow players after rehearsals.
The band director's wife looked after her at the first couple of outdoor twilight concerts.
After that, she was old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours. But I brought her to rehearsals all summer long.
She sleeps on the bed beside me. She drinks from the kitchen tap. She's outgrown wanting to interfere with my fingers on the computer keyboard, but whatever room I am in, there she is also.
She has several dozen cat-speak sounds and an equal number of cat gestures that she has taught me the meaning of.
My favorite is a short hum in her throat, like the beginning of a purr, but higher pitched.
That signifies her pleasure when she has understood that I know what she was telling me she wanted and am moving to grant her wish. Like opening the refrigerator door to take out the Pounce treat.
Or taking up the soda straw to toss it for her to chase.
Or bending down to clean the just-dirtied litter box.
Oh, yes, I am indeed informed every time and immediately, when that litter box becomes dirty.
She likes music. And she likes for me to read to her. Or talk on the telephone. As near as I can make out, she believes I am talking to her.
More adventures of M&M will be forthcoming, if I am encouraged to write them.
Or probably even if I am not so encouraged, except by my own self.
Stay tuned.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Worth Reading
Two articles in the January 8 issue
of The New Yorker magazine:
1) Adam Gopnik on football.
2) Milan Kundera on being a Czech within a changing map of Europe.
They bring to mind this website:
http://www.rense.com/general72/size.htm
Since it's all a matter of perspective.
Nevertheless, some lines of
W.H. Auden in a Phi Beta Kappa
address decades ago,
constantly echo in my mind--
his advice to,
" Read The New Yorker,
trust in God;
And take short views."
The entire poem, with a
little historical context and
commentary is available
on-line, among other places,
at:
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1082.html
It's delightful and well worth
re-reading.
I aim to stick with the third part of the
admonition and enjoy my own life
in very short views.
Except when the night sky clears,
occasionally, and gives me a look
at the Big Dipper, or even, if
conditions are right in this well-
lighted city, at the North Star.
Then the view is long indeed.
of The New Yorker magazine:
1) Adam Gopnik on football.
2) Milan Kundera on being a Czech within a changing map of Europe.
They bring to mind this website:
http://www.rense.com/general72/size.htm
Since it's all a matter of perspective.
Nevertheless, some lines of
W.H. Auden in a Phi Beta Kappa
address decades ago,
constantly echo in my mind--
his advice to,
" Read The New Yorker,
trust in God;
And take short views."
The entire poem, with a
little historical context and
commentary is available
on-line, among other places,
at:
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1082.html
It's delightful and well worth
re-reading.
I aim to stick with the third part of the
admonition and enjoy my own life
in very short views.
Except when the night sky clears,
occasionally, and gives me a look
at the Big Dipper, or even, if
conditions are right in this well-
lighted city, at the North Star.
Then the view is long indeed.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
An Urban Winter Wilderness
At the edge of a large city, with only a quick refocus of the eyes, a person can be in the midst of a pocket-sized wilderness.
Down among the grassroots is a world of tiny insects and plants. Up in the tree branches the struggle for life goes on--the tree's life and the lives of its many inhabitants.
With luck and a bit of skill, one can capture the foraging bee near its food, or the itinerant cloud, apparently caught on the tall tree's bare twigs. January, even in the mildness of a thaw, is most likely too far into winter for seeing bees. But it has abounded, lately, in views of clouds. All awaiting the interest of the digital camera wielder.
Yesterday I looked up at the surviving clusters of leaves on the large maple in my front yard, their lobed silhouettes showing an occasional warm russet in the freshening wind. And behind them, seemingly close enough to touch, the moving layers of gray clouds.
For a moment I felt as if I were at the bottom of some strange, clear sea. And at my feet, tangled in the shiny green forms on this alien sea-floor, miniature sea anemones in fading purple, blurred by the racing currents.
Hanging on, through freezing temperatures that alternated with heavy rainstorms, these were the tiny wild aster blossoms, withered but lovely on their stems that poked up through the prone leaves of the spreading honeysuckle vines.
In actuality, we do live at the bottom of an ocean of air, and we process it through our bodies as surely as the fish move the sea water through their gills. It is our habitat.
And, to borrow the words of Al Gore, that is surely, at times, an inconvenient truth. But the sky transmutes into visual beauty whatever we upload into it, and if we're lucky, we may yet survive the residue when it inevitably rains back down upon us.
Labels: Winter Musings
Down among the grassroots is a world of tiny insects and plants. Up in the tree branches the struggle for life goes on--the tree's life and the lives of its many inhabitants.
With luck and a bit of skill, one can capture the foraging bee near its food, or the itinerant cloud, apparently caught on the tall tree's bare twigs. January, even in the mildness of a thaw, is most likely too far into winter for seeing bees. But it has abounded, lately, in views of clouds. All awaiting the interest of the digital camera wielder.
Yesterday I looked up at the surviving clusters of leaves on the large maple in my front yard, their lobed silhouettes showing an occasional warm russet in the freshening wind. And behind them, seemingly close enough to touch, the moving layers of gray clouds.
For a moment I felt as if I were at the bottom of some strange, clear sea. And at my feet, tangled in the shiny green forms on this alien sea-floor, miniature sea anemones in fading purple, blurred by the racing currents.
Hanging on, through freezing temperatures that alternated with heavy rainstorms, these were the tiny wild aster blossoms, withered but lovely on their stems that poked up through the prone leaves of the spreading honeysuckle vines.
In actuality, we do live at the bottom of an ocean of air, and we process it through our bodies as surely as the fish move the sea water through their gills. It is our habitat.
And, to borrow the words of Al Gore, that is surely, at times, an inconvenient truth. But the sky transmutes into visual beauty whatever we upload into it, and if we're lucky, we may yet survive the residue when it inevitably rains back down upon us.
Labels: Winter Musings
Saturday, January 6, 2007
A January Day
Here I am, creating the initial post to my very first blog. It's Saturday, January 6, 2007, and through the venetian blinds on the back windows of this room I can see sunshine on green grass and shadows on the wet boards of the fence under the big maple tree.
My little black cat is snoring on her
bed behind me.
With my fingers resting on the keys
of the computer keyboard, I am
musing on how hard it is to
write well.
But, here goes.
From time to time I'll try to offer an account in this blog of what's happening around me and what has caught my interest or occupied my days.
It wasn't easy to get to this editor window. The software said that "marysmusings" wasn't available and it made me put into the URL an extra "mary" and a hyphen. After 9 years I still can't get used to how picky such software is. But--it's the final arbiter, and so I complied.
I know that, like my little black cat, it is the Boss.
But once it is happy, then I can do as I please.
I'll put the link to a photo here from time to time. Or type in a bit of verse. Or tell something funny that's recently happened.
Right now the day outside looks so beautiful and mild that I think I'll take my digital camera and go see what there is to capture in the neighborhood.
Until later, then.
My little black cat is snoring on her
bed behind me.
With my fingers resting on the keys
of the computer keyboard, I am
musing on how hard it is to
write well.
But, here goes.
From time to time I'll try to offer an account in this blog of what's happening around me and what has caught my interest or occupied my days.
It wasn't easy to get to this editor window. The software said that "marysmusings" wasn't available and it made me put into the URL an extra "mary" and a hyphen. After 9 years I still can't get used to how picky such software is. But--it's the final arbiter, and so I complied.
I know that, like my little black cat, it is the Boss.
But once it is happy, then I can do as I please.
I'll put the link to a photo here from time to time. Or type in a bit of verse. Or tell something funny that's recently happened.
Right now the day outside looks so beautiful and mild that I think I'll take my digital camera and go see what there is to capture in the neighborhood.
Until later, then.
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