5am Somewhere

Warning: contains strong language not appropriate for those offended by four letter bombs. Also, I may have woken up too early this morning.

You know who I really can’t stand? People who wake up at 5am. They don’t just wake up at 5am and live their merry little lives on their own circadian rhythm. No, they wake up at 5am and crow about it to the whole world. They get all sanctimonious about waking up at 5am. It makes them better than everyone else, more productive, more worth their space on earth. Like 5am is some morally superior time. They wake up at 5am and look down their noses at everyone who wakes up after them, like it’s a race to wake up and they won! And they stand on the tallest podium and put a little gold alarm clock around their neck. You can’t help but wonder: if they ever got an adequate amount of sleep, maybe they’d be nice, maybe a little normal, maybe someone you’d actually want to be in a room with.

Listen, 5am-freakers, we all have 24 hours in a day and what does it matter how we situate those in which we sleep and those in which we are awake?

You know who’s cool? People who sleep in until 10am. They won’t be in your face telling you “YOU SHOULD REALLY SLEEP UNTIL TEN!!! You are so much more productive when you sleep until 10 because then you can get a lot done at night. Only successful people sleep until ten.” You know what, businesses are still open at 10am. The gym is still open at 10am. The bank is still open at 10am. The internet is still open at 10am. The 10am-wakers wake up and mind their own fucking business. Maybe they say, “I woke up at 10.” But they certainly don’t get all up in your business barking about the virtues of waking up when they wake up.

You know what happens when I wake up at 5am? I’m a fucking bitch. Especially at 8:30pm when it’s time to get the kids to bed. I find it really helps the kids sleep deep and rewarding sleeps if I’m super bitchy for the all of 5 minutes I can stand of shuffling them off to their beds. And you know what I’ve discovered? EVERYONE who wakes up at 5am is a fucking bitch. Because why would they make it their business to tell the rest of the world when to wake up? As Ram Dass says, you wake up when you wake up. And although he’s speaking of enlightenment (whatever that even means), it’s the same with any given day. You wake up when you wake up. You’ve got your circadian rhythm. I’ve got mine.

You know what happens when I hear someone telling me to wake up at 5am? I’m a fucking bitch. I used to hear things like “Real moms wake up at 5am.” Real bitchy moms wake up at 5am, Ms. Case-in-Point. Why would the time you wake up make you real or not real? Make you a better person, a better mom? And you know what’s not being a better person? Waking up at 5am and telling everyone that if they had any worth or value they’d wake up at 5am too. They’d tell me that if you wake up at 5am, you get time to yourself and can plan out your day and prepare everything before the kids wake up. You know what happened when I tried that? My kids woke up at 5:15am and everyone was a fucking mess by 6:30pm. 

Blue face-palming over my inability to selfie

You know when I plan my day and prepare everything? The fucking night before. Because that’s when I have the energy and the clearest mind. Why would planning my day 8 hours before make me less of a mom? In fact, if the planning-of-the-day is the race, then put me on the top podium and tie a gold spreadsheet around my neck because I kick your ass every.damn.day.of.the.week. And it's not even like we have to get to work on time; we're stay-at-home moms. Home is always open. My kitchen doesn't have a time clock. No one is breathing down my neck about getting here on time. I can't be fired. Why act like I've got some asshole boss when I don't? Maybe you do, maybe you're your own boss and your boss is a fucking bitch. But mine's nice and well-rested. I'm not scared of her.

Just when I was out of the woods, when the other moms have finally wound down their incessant mom-talk, have stopped preaching about 5 am, I now am inundated by profession advice to wake up at 5am. REAL writers start at 5am! You know what would happen if I did that? I've get 1 1/2 hours of completely incomprehensible crap written before I had to get the kids up and take them to school and then I would need a long-ass nap.

I do wake up, voluntarily, at 5am as I keep a dream journal and that’s often a time that I wake up, roll over and write on my notepad about my dream. And half the time I can’t read it when I wake up later. And if I can, it doesn't make sense: “Not hearing the sounds of breathing. The empty cartridge? Not his breath, not hers, but they were weren’t they? I hear nothing and that can’t mean anything we are not single use. Turn to see Open eyes… how much we have left,” scrawled over an entire page in large, floppy “letters”. That’s what I fucking write at 5am. Greatness, right there, right?!

I’ve also woken up at 5am too many times these last few months, not just for dream entries but to shuttle Blue to her Ground Zero Hour drama class. But you won’t hear me bragging about it. Au contraire.

Zinnia: dramatic death scene

You know, I start to feel sorry for people that wake up at 5am. People that wake up at 5am seem to be under a lot of pressure to prove their worth and value and they seem to think that waking up at 5am and telling everyone they should too adds to their worth and value. I’m calling all you 5am crowers out right now: you’re insecure. That's okay, everyone's insecure sometimes. But please, for the love of sleep, keep me out of it. If you need to tell everyone else when to wake up and that that is the only way to obtain the same worth and value 5am has brought to you, that’s just sad. Certainly, if you enjoy waking up at 5am, if it suits you and your temperament, go for it. I won’t stop you (unless we share a bedroom, then we will stop sharing a bedroom). But how about you shut the fuck up about it. Back OFF. BACK WAAAY OFF. Just go live your life, wake up, quietly, keep the lights low and keep it to your own insecure little self. Maybe say, once in a while, “I wake up at 5am,” but as a statement of fact, not a badge of superiority. And try to remember that your worth and value as a person have nothing, whatsoever!, to do with the time you wake up in the morning. It actually has nothing to do with anything that you DO or don’t DO -- at any time of day. And try to remember that it’s always 5am somewhere in the world and so, in a way, we ALL wake up at 5am, bitches.

January: decay and decadence

I have found something to love about January: photos! And now that I have a working phone-camera again I am on the hunt for fun, decay-filled things to shoot. And some sunrises too, because Lard (a term we learned from a church kiosk with a few misspellings) knows that winter time is the only time I’m up for sunrises.

an empty brassica seed pod

drowning leaves, frozen

grass in ice

a pumpkin leaf in a frozen puddle

Abandoned cherry tomatoes in a frozen garden puddle

January sunrise on Paradise Prairie

pine cone after a wild harvest

the crab apple ages well

still hinged, after all these years

crab apple sunrise in fog

rotten sunflower seeds, or maybe dragon scales

Oh Cap'n, My Cap'n!

The tragic tale of the missing Cosmos took a cosmic turn. During the doomed search and rescue phase, we received several phone calls about a black cat nearby at this neighbor's or that's. Hearts ablaze with hope, we'd rush to the scene only to discover a black kitten, three years too young, eyes of gold not green, and a round face, not triangular.  The shoulders of our thoughtful would-be-hero neighbors would sag and we would shuffle back to our grief-stricken home, our laps still empty. We would marvel at the chutzpah of anyone to let their 3 month old roam these hills alone, but what could we do about that? Although the kitty was adorable and terrified, I found it annoying to have my heart jerked around.

Later, I spotted it in our field, larger now, and sized like Cosmos. Shocked, I leaped over acres of weed-hurdles yelling, "Cosmos!? Cosmos?! Really?! It's you?!" But no, it was only the startled interloper doppelganger. I gave him a few pets and shuffled on back home.

The cat, impressed with his reception on our property, came back a few days later. I again flipped out that a miracle had occurred, hallelujah! Cosmos had pried himself from the coyote's cache and returned home! Slaughter the fatted calf! Roast the lambs! The boy has returned! But no...

The cat began hanging out in our yard in earnest. Coyote's were close by throughout that week. I saw the kitty crouched in the ditch as coyote's howled. I spotted the kitty sleeping half way up the Russian Pine outside my kitchen window, while coyote's howled. So one night, we put him in the car and drove door to door looking for his owners.

They have the newest and fanciest house in the neighborhood, a gable-plex behemoth with an importantly enormous wood door and a workshop the size of Texas, all in tasteful gray. I know them. The woman is a wonderful teacher at one of the variety of schools we've tried (until settling contentedly where we are now). Based on the grandeur of her home, I assume her work as a teacher is hobby-based employment. I was primed to forgive her for her sloppy cat-stewardship. I wanted, as I always do, for my admiration of this person to remain in tact. That was my primary goal here. And so I was unexpectedly crushed beneath the icky flow of disappointing information that she puked up. Here's the sampler: They've lived there for two years already now, can it be? and they've gone through 6?7? maybe more? cats. So hard to keep track of them all! The longest one was a year. The neighbors can't seem to spay or neuter in a timely manner so a bushel of kitties are always available, a never ending supply, an utterly renewable resource here for our convenience. So handy. The kitties, dirty overflow kitties, are not allowed inside anywhere. Is that our cat? Probably. Yeah. Oh well, life in the country! Haha! Am I right?!

Noting my slack jaw, she rolled her eyes at me, "Oh, you're the," she paused here and I thought or imagined or actually heard the ghost of the word "idiot" seep off into the ether before she continued, "who put up the posters."

I came from this culture, but it is not mine.

"Yep, that's me. We care about our pets."

What about "domestic cat" escapes people? Inherent in the term is the human bred obligation to care for them, at least somewhat, with food and some kind of shelter, any kind of shelter. We aren't fanatics here - no rhinestone tags and inside-only owners are we. But they are here by human will and we owe them at least the basic necessities.

Also, I'm not going to out and out blame her for the disappearance of Cosmos, but she certainly made it clear to the coyotes where they could find a hot meal. She basically erected a neon "OPEN" sign over our neighborhood: dishing up morsels of kitty round the clock! Come and get it!

We left the cat in their "care," and went on our stunned way, asking ourselves, "Did she really say that?" "Did you hear her say that too?"

As the song goes, the cat came back the very next day. After another week of watching the terrified thing (that looked cruelly identical to the cat our laps were still mourning, except for the balls on his back side) skulk around our yard, we finally set him up in the garage. And a week later, when our night temperatures plunged to single digits, and upon the ethical and biological advice of our veterinarian, we brought him inside, to the basement, just for one night, because I had no intention of disposing of a little frozen kitty carcass.

And then the next night. And the next. And the next.

I asked around about the ethics of this and no one raised any red flags. Cats are known for choosing their homes. And Cap'n Jack's former owners didn't uphold even the most rudimentary of ownership duties. Also, the cat's original property is separated by ours, at the corners, by only 50 feet. He could have gone home any time. He still can.

Cap'n Jack destroying Coyote's Lego Black Pearl

He now refuses to leave the house. When I make him, he hoovers up the mice at a rate of 2 per every half hour. Cosmos never did that. His purr is more songbird chirp and I like to imagine it's due to a  Romulus-n-Remus-type-experience, but with birds instead of wolves and thus being socialized by the finches in the pines. King Louis (apparently our cats all come with ostentatious titles. No Private Jack. No Serf Louis. Not in this house) is adjusting perfectly. Cap'n Jack is much more likely to fulfill behavior expectations than Cosmos ever was. When we told him to not scratch the furniture, he listened. Don't get up on the counters. Okay, then, thanks for letting me know. The gratitude and humility and constant, deep level understanding that things could have gone very differently, are rich in rescued animals.

Cap'n Jack still indulges in a few insecurity-based activities like licking us, but the vet expects he'll get over it soon enough, once he realizes he's home for good.  And we've marked him as ours now, getting him neutered and vaccinated. Soon, he should get the idea that he's secure here, as secure as a cat can be.

I like to think that Cap'n Jack had a moment of recognition when he experienced my confused and effusive welcomings, when I thought I was recognizing Cosmos. He knew, as soon as he saw it, that that was what he was looking for, what he wanted, what he deserved. He deserved love. And that was the first thing he got here. Food and shelter too, but first came love, however mistaken it was.

Perhaps Cap'n Jack was destined for some kind of coyote, but he lucked out with the kid kind here.

Coyote: Christmas at the Reserve

Cap'n Jack also knew that if he stayed "where" he was, which was nowhere, which was just outside some place safe, he would die. And I think we all feel that way when it's time to grow: this situation, the one I was handed, it no longer works for me and if nothing changes, I will die. And so he went in search of safety and life and it was only 1/4 mile away and it was ready for him. Safety had an opening for a black-cat right when he needed it.

I like to imagine that he'd read the signs around the neighborhood. I can almost see him knocking on our door, cap in hand, face smudged with dirt like an Oliver orphan, "Ma'am, I heard you be lookin' for a black cat. I mayn't be the cat youz lookin' for, xactly, but I do fit the description. Might you give me a chance to try my hand at bein' your black cat?"

Blue: Christmas at the Reserve

Such an unusual wrinkle to our tale of losing Cosmos, it seems magical. Perhaps he's our very own familiar. Maybe he's a symbol of Huck and my anarcho-syndicalist past together. Or maybe, as is the Scottish superstition, he's a symbol of coming prosperity. Or perhaps he's the Cat Sith, as he arrived on our doorstep near Samhain. Ooh, or maybe one of Freya's lucky black cats, destined to pull her chariot. Or, more prosaically and likely, just an unloved stray-ish looking for a sucker or someone infected with the cat-love parasite Toxoplasma gondii. But even Blue, uber-atheist and uber-rationalist, can't resist the idea that there is some mystical element to this, musing,"It almost seems like Cosmos sent him to us. Almost." Whatever it is, despite not quite feeling ready to open my heart again to a cat, he feels like a blessing, like a gift from the cosmos.

Chuck and the French Bite

I’ve always been terrified of forgetting, of the oblivion every moment threatens to slide into as soon as it passes. My TBI is a cosmic joke, poking at my hornet's-nest-fear of failed memory. I don’t know why I've always worried about this (scribbling 4 apple boxes worth of journals throughout the years), as the destiny of each moment and memory is and must be oblivion, eventual, certain, and permanent erasure. I’m sure I’m not on the cusp my own Alzheimer’s, although my head injury dramatically increases its eventuality. Lately, I remember things and I worry that it will be the last time I see them. The TBI's oblivion now creeps into my present moment and erases things before I notice they ever existed. But the things I do remember are clear and I tend to remember what I do very precisely.  I’ve read that what we remember has emotional markers on it, a feeling-scent that at the time alerted us to its importance, alerting our inner secretary to file this one, not shred. What you remember can tell you quite a bit about who you are, what you value, and what you fear. And I feel terrible when others remember what I don’t, like my mind has implied to the world that it wasn’t important to me. To a schmuck like you, maybe. But to a grand poobah like me, nope.

In my favorite tree

I posted to Facebook a 1992 photo of me and a friend from Bellingham who came all the way to South Carolina to visit me. I remember that I gave her a chitenge from Malawi that I had apparently promised to someone else (but I’d forgotten that) and the someone-else was angry that she hadn’t received it.  I eventually felt okay about the genuine mistake because Keri was the only person to visit me in exile … er South Carolina, and she deserved the blue and green swath of cloth reward.  Keri remembered making bead earrings while listening to Ella Fitzgerald. I do not remember that, and I'm sad about it. I’m certain we did that however, both things were staples of my high school existence.

Heading out on my own, will I get lost?

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong were the first two non-Christian-music artists' tapes I bought (at Avalon Records in Bellingham at the corner of Magnolia and Railroad), and I listened to them constantly and likely remember every word. These tapes were joined by two others: Sinead O’Connor’s The Lion and The Cobra (is she wearing baby pj’s on her butt in this video?) which my brother gave me. “I think you’d really be into this new singer” he said, handing me what was likely a hot tape that had likely come from one of the many car stereos of mysterious origin that were filling up his closet during his years of experimentation with exactly which illegal career he was best suited for. I also had procured the Indigo Girls debut at that point, thus rounding out my formative, oddly lesbian-esc collection of music. When I was home alone, I put on Sinead for the first time and I danced through the tape twice. 

I recently remembered this because I am in need of exercise and the outdoors is shutting down as a viable source, but the gyms are too loud.  So one evening Coyote was listening to “Hearts of Space” while I was beginning to remember that music is the human experience that moves me most deeply. Ironically it is one that I have no natural ability for, so I suppose part of its allure is that it is sort of my personal forbidden-fruit. And I began to dance, making sure the curtains were all closed, rolling up the carpet, staying safe in my sequins-ed shell/shawl. I danced my unclassifiable mix of ballet, belly, swing and ska until I was worn out, about 15 whole minutes. And the next day I was sore and that’s the indication there’s work to be done. So I’ve been dancing to every type of music (except country, musicals and Christian rock – the ménage trois of ear-torture) as daily as possible for my allotted 15 minutes and it makes me sore and happy down to my toes and the buzz lasts all day.

I was 13 and had just begun the terrible, horrible no-good high school youth group at our church. I was thrilled to be old enough-- FINALLY!-- to join, only to quickly realize it was a raunchy group of assholes and our leader was the Terrible Asshole in Chief (oh god… I have stories-- STORIES! about this regrettable group.)  So much of our childhood is wasted on looking forward to things that turn out to be, at best, underwhelming but more often, nightmarish. But who wants to tell their bright eyed child THAT? Better to let life’s letdowns come naturally, at their own pace.

After only a few summer weeks of Wednesday nights in the church’s double wide (the former “parsonage” my family had once lived in, since converted into Sunday school classrooms), I left early for my long, dark walk home, across the street.  On that warm summer night, moments before my Freshman year, a cute high school Senior with freckles and a bowl cut followed me out to the gravel parking lot.  I had made it as far as the plum tree when he called my name from the back porch. I turned. "Wait up!" He jumped over the railing and ran towards me, crackling across the gravel. When he arrived by my bewildered side, he wordlessly placed his hand behind my neck, tilted my head towards him and kissed me on my lips. It was my first kiss. It could not have been more romantic.  

I want to always remember the moon, full and shining through the leaves of the plum tree. The plum tree was likely the one from which my baby sister once picked up a black slug, assuming it was a plum, and ate it at the table with our elderly visitor; a black slime dripped, un-noticed for half an hour, from her baby mouth. It was the tree beneath which I was bounced (I'd been told) from an overly-enthusiastic wagon-ride provided for me by my big brother, always taking me out for adventures… and stitches. But those were two different trees, weren’t they? Maybe I was kissed beneath the ash tree, full of radiant red berries, or maybe that tree was at the other house.  So it was a tree, the moon was dappling our shoulders with its light. But it wasn’t the moon, I now realize, it was the sole streetlight in the church parking lot; it did not shine silver but sodium vapor yellow.  At any rate, Chuck would become my boyfriend. And I danced all the way home.

Chuck rode a motorcycle and I loved climbing on the back, sliding my hands up beneath his shirt, clinging to him around the curves of our country roads. He always let me wear the helmet. Later he got a car with windows that steamed up nicely for added privacy.

I was babysitting, my usual nanny job, so I think it was summer time yet… maybe. Yes, the last day of summer vacation.  The kids had gone to the neighbor’s but I was still obligated to stay, watching MTV, the forbidden fruit of television.  I called my new boyfriend and he happened to be at a friend’s house across the street, and we could see no reason why he shouldn’t cross the street.  And suddenly we were making out on their couch and then in their kitchen.  And, this must have been early on in our courtship, because he tried on this day, my first French kiss.

I spit out his tongue, “What the hell was that?!”

“French kissing.”

“French kissing is disgusting!”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“How will I do that if I’m never doing it again?”

“It’s the main part of kissing. You need to learn how to do it.”

“Nope. Not going to happen. Don’t try it again.” That was clear, right? I’d made myself clear, I believe.

But three seconds later, there’s a goddamn tongue in my mouth!

So I bit down, hard! And I held it. He was screaming.  I finally let go.

“What the hell wath that!?” He lisped.

“I told you I didn’t want to do it. And I meant it.”

Oh, but I didn’t mean it for long. Soon we were Frenching everywhere, at school against the lockers, at basketball games, and on the short walks home from Youth Group.

Slavin, alone for the first time in 2 years

My parents did not like this boy: “What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he date a woman his own age?!” my dad thundered. I think I understand what he meant, but an insecure 13/14 year old only heard that anyone who dated me would have to have something wrong with them. My brother, who was more Chuck’s age, didn’t like our dating either and he made him a pariah of the illegal-activity set. 

My parents escalated from insulting him to outright forbidding me to date him.  And so I did not date him where they could watch. I went to basketball games with my friends, but spent the time steaming up his car. My parents went to a family gathering, while I stayed home in sickness or homework and Chuck would wait down the road until he saw their car leave. We would make out on the living room floor and listen to Sinead O’Connor. (I am listening to this song with a cat on my lap and see now that it is the ultimate house cat song...I'm envisioning a video of this song with alluring cats!)  Until one day my parents doubled back to retrieve some forgotten item: oh those forgotten items! the bane of every sneaker! And I was never allowed to stay home alone again. The more upset they became, the more attractive Chuck got, my savior from these nutso's, my motorcycle get-away driver.

I was not head-over-heels for Chuck, really. He was just so exciting and forbidden. But after the excitement of the “firsts” wore off, he was just kind of a jerk, kind of nice too.  I was on the fence. My friend convinced me one evening to finally break it off. So I did. Chuck, surprisingly unruffled, sweetly asked if I would need to change the name of my cat, Charlie.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you named him after me.”

“Oh god no. He’s named after Charlie Chaplin.” I realized then that I was making a good choice. "Who names a cat after their freshman boyfriend?"

Chuck and my friend showed up the next day at school as an item. It was a terrible thing for her to do (which she apologized for recently) but I was not too upset. I knew we’d break up eventually as I was only 14 and had always known I wouldn’t be marrying the guy I dated at 14. No, I was saving those absurd, unrealistic expectations for when I was 15!

Blue loves the story of the first French kiss. She asks for it again and again. Now, she is my age, then. And she is very different from me, more secure, more level headed and practical. Better, in every way, I often marvel. But who knows what she's got up her sleeves. Only time will tell (and then forget.)

Blue's Totoro pumpkin

Whatever happened to Chuck, we might ask. Chuck joined the army a few months later, had two kids and committed suicide at 28. I am the sole proprietor of these utterly cherishable memories. And now I’m not.