who’s most afraid of death?  thou
                                              art of him
utterly afraid, i love of thee
(beloved) this

                   and truly i would be
near when his scythe takes crisply the whim
of thy smoothness.  and mark the fainting
murdered petals.  with the caving stem.

But of all most would i be one of them

round the hurt heart which do so frailly cling . . . .
i who am but imperfect in my fear

Or with thy mind against my mind, to hear
nearing our hearts’ irrevocable play—
through the mysterious high futile day

an enormous stride
                          (and drawing thy mouth toward

my mouth, steer our lost bodies carefully downward)

[poem is "who's most afraid of death? thou art of him" by e.e. cummings]

She peers between the cracks like an old friend looking in upon us, like a handmaiden rested from sleep so she might tend to our collective well-being.

Peek if you must, but rest your eyes upon me nonetheless.

A friend, yes, but more than that.

I scarcely recognize her in such garments, in such clothes woven from desperation’s fair.

She sings to me of lesser times, of that which only she knows, and she feels the heartache just as I feel it, just as I desperately grab at its core in hopes of resting from its grip the anguish it brandishes.

Ah, but she knows.

Wielded like a sword waved to and fro before my face.

A blade.

A weapon.

A terrible thing.

She comes for me now, for us all, and we embrace her like an old friend, as though we might embrace a lost love.

She is the concubine of desperation, of need filled with want filled with restless hope.  She is what we cannot touch yet need desperately.  She is what we cannot see yet long to devour with our eyes.

She is change, longing, pain and joy.  And she knocks relentlessly even as her eyes consume us from without.

Soon her ways will be our ways, her unrest our unrest.  Soon…

[Larenti]

…as well as a bigot, butthead, Byzantine boob, bitter blight, biased bully, bootlicker and bogus boss.

To use her thoughtless thinking against her, wouldn’t you presume she looks like a Zero, the kind of vicious, vile, vindictive vixen the likes of which was responsible for Pearl Harbor?  I bet she’s still sour over the war and is looking for a way to ruin the U.S. from within.

Why, yes, that must be it.  Michelle Malkin is a mindless minion of murderous marauders still absent-mindedly motivated to massacre Americans by means both minute and mocking of morality.

I bet she can deliver a message to Satan for me…when she gets to hell, I mean.

[I do so try to stay out of politics here, but this daft and devilish defilement of Dunkin' Donuts due to a simple scarf is definitely dumb, disgusting, depraved, dreadful and deliberately deceptive; Michelle Malkin is as ignorant as she is asinine, and that says little of her malicious, malignant egomania]

After last year’s catastrophic outcome for the northern mockingbird (Mimus polyglottos) nest in my tree, the death of four nestlings did not dissuade a mockingbird couple from trying again this year.  Same couple?  I don’t know.

I’ve watched them flit into the tree quite a bit over the last few months.  At first I thought they came and went as they stole nesting materials from the various leftovers still held within its branches, but I realized I was wrong when over the last week or two I’ve noticed them bringing insects to the tree and leaving shortly thereafter—with no insect in tow.

Only today did I finally hear the first nestling as it responded to one of the parents landing nearby.  After both parents left, I saw a tiny bit of movement through the branches.  So I know at least one baby resides in the nest.

The parents watch me closely when I’m outside, and more importantly, they watch everything on the tree closely.  The other day I saw them violently expel a fox squirrel (Sciurus niger) who unwittingly climbed the trunk that would take it directly to the nest.  Both birds swept in and assaulted the rodent until it jumped from the tree, then they chased it for some distance, the squirrel running for all it was worth as the two avian combatants hit it repeatedly as they flew along with it.

I don’t blame them for being so watchful, so adamant about protecting the nest.  The hatchling (or is it hatchlings?) must be quite young to have only recently found a voice.  And only recently did the parents begin delivering fresh meals.

My hope is that, unlike last year, the young bird or birds stay in the nest until they’re more capable of handling the outside world.  I’ll be watching closely to make note of their progress.

To add delight to the thriving community in this one little tree, yesterday I watched a male green anole (Anolis carolinensis) as he challenged me.  Yes, challenged me.  Each time I moved, he changed positions until he could face me directly, then he would do that marvelous little push-up maneuver with his impressive throat fan displayed.

I tried finding a spot where I could watch him without challenging his manhood.  It didn’t work.  He kept a very close eye on me and waited for me to stop before he again started his display.

Why?  Apparently he already had his eyes on a young lass also scampering about the tree, one watching him closely to see just how far he was willing to go to stake his claim and win the prize.  I stepped inside briefly to fetch a beer, and when I returned to the patio I obviously had provided just enough of a respite for her to think him the winner of our encounter.

He did indeed win the prize, and I was happy for him as I didn’t particularly find her that attractive.  Pretty, yes, and fascinating to say the least, but she really wasn’t my type.

Oh, sorry for the gratuitous lizard sex.  Maybe I should have posted a warning.

Because Saturday went so well having al-Zill out and about for most of the day, yesterday I decided to leave him out as long as the situation warranted.  From the moment I awoke, he scurried and scampered in a continuing investigation of his new home and family.

The occasional hiss from one of the other cats in response to an invasion of personal space did little to worry me.

Generally speaking, al-Zill has done marvelously under the circumstances.  He knows to give Kako a wide berth; nevertheless, he continuously pushes her buttons in attempts to be friendly.

In that regard, he offers head butts and rubs to all of The Kids if he gets close enough.  Sometimes these are accepted graciously; other times, they are rebutted with hisses and even a few swats.

No significant violence has ensued, however, and that’s a good thing.

While stripping the bed yesterday as part of my effort to complete chores, I had all the help I could ever want—including the newcomer.

Clockwise from left, that’s al-Zill, Kazon, Larenti, Vazra and Loki.  You can see how much assistance I received with retrieving the sheets for washing.

I believe it took all but a few minutes outside the bathroom for al-Zill to realize the bed wasn’t off limits.  And you know how cats love comfy beds…

As expected, he has spent some time pondering the patio from this new perspective.  That has been his home for quite some time, so he, like Larenti before him and Vazra before that, sees the outside world as the home he left, the place where food and water and shelter and safety came unflaggingly, where affection and attention never failed to deliver.

In due time, like the others, those memories will give way as the longing to return to that world diminishes in light of new joys in a new home.

His antics are endearing.  As a young cat, he’s as playful as he is charming—and mischievous.  One consideration I must keep in mind stems from his neurological damage.  Yesterday while dashing up and down the cat castle, hanging from it like a child on monkey bars, he slipped and fell.  Any other feline would have caught a grip on the way down, but al-Zill’s limbs chose that time to become erratic…so down he plummeted.

No harm done, though.  He rebounded and raced into the bedroom without a backward glance.

With one tipped ear and one torn ear, and scars from the tip of his nose to the base of his neck, he constantly sings testament to the dangers he faced and the certain death that awaited him.  With such an amiable personality and delightful countenance, I sometimes weep for what might have been had I left him to his fate.

He still seeks comfort and rest in the cat carrier I’ve left in the bathroom.  When he’s serious about taking a nap, that’s where he goes.  But still he joined us in bed overnight for several hours of dreamy sleep.

Several times he woke me with investigative trouble, whether by clearing the bathroom counter (as he’s still figuring out mirrors…) or trying to climb the office blinds (another learning experience…).  Then there was the crying, the touching call that echoed through the house as he moved about trying to find his place in the dark, trying to figure out precisely what to make of this new world.  His voice remains childlike, a lamentable sound reminiscent of a moaning toddler too lonely to survive.  I think his voice will never change following the brain damage he suffered (which marked its most dramatic transition from raspy feline to tearful baby).

He’s already found a new bed: the round, soft feline furniture next to the window in the bedroom.  He’s played there, napped there, rested there.  I’ve seen him in it many times just in the last 24 hours.  His adaptation progresses as his ease grows.

Having been free to roam all day and all night, and given the lack of mayhem that ensued, I’m leaving the bathroom door open and allowing him to acclimate as he sees fit.  I interfere only when he gets into trouble.  So long as there are no major problems today, I’ll leave him out tomorrow while I go to the office.  That will be the first true test.

An endless blue sky stretched above me as bright sunshine fell in a heavy downpour of heat.  I stood at the family farm the morning of April 14 waiting for that uncomfortable moment when my parents and I would head to the hospital for yet more doctor visits, more discussion of the tumors growing in my father’s head, more talk of the endlessly impending surgery that ultimately had to be done.

With camera in hand, I restlessly meandered about the main yard looking for something—anything—to photograph, to divert my attention.

Then I found it.

Moving along silently through grass and over dirt was a behemoth, a large beetle so black as to be like ink, so massive as to challenge anything smaller than my own fist.

I knew it immediately to be either a predacious diving beetle or a water scavenger beetle^[1], both of which grow to giant proportions and exhibit the same carapace made of shadow’s deepest hues.

I knelt and tried photographing it as it marched along.  Much of its time was spent navigating a forest of grass, usually beneath it where capturing respectable images was all but impossible.  But from time to time it crawled into the light upon a bit of earth or a tuft of plant too low to provide shelter.

Even with eyes intently focused on the creature before me, I realized all too quickly that another approached, one much larger than the first, one interested in discovering just what I had found.

Speckles, one of the chickens at the farm, had busied herself with hunting insects until she set eyes upon me.  Her curious nature and unrelenting interest in the food she’s come to expect from us made her divert course and head unswervingly for my location.

With eyes locked on the ground before me and occasionally glancing at me directly, she approached with steadfast resolution.

It was too late for me to protect the beetle.  The fowl marched right to me, looked me in the eye from within a breath of my face, then turned to look at the ground where my interest had been so focused.

She saw the large beast walking near the place where my knee rested.  She moved in for the kill.

It took but three strikes to dispatch and consume the beetle: the first stunned it into stillness, the second tore away both halves of its wing-covering shell, and the third saw it disappear into a beak on its way to oblivion.

“Hey, that was totally uncool!”  Somehow I felt scolding the hen at least made me feel better.

She cocked her head and looked at me, nothing more in her eyes than pleasant thanks for a sizable meal.

I stood and walked away.

She followed.

Then began a newfound friendship with Speckles.  She remained tight on my heels for quite some time, following me no matter where I went.  Each time I stopped she immediately inspected the ground beneath us, scanning tirelessly for the next goodie I might have discovered and delivered.

Sometimes she would look at me with a questioning face.  “Where is it?” I could hear in the silence between us.  “What did you find?  Point it out so it doesn’t get away.”

I couldn’t help but laugh constantly as I stumbled over her, gently pushed her out of the way with my foot when she refused to accept an empty offering, watched her shadow me ad nauseam while inspecting every inch of ground when I paused, and even tested her intent by zigging and zagging through the yard in random patterns.  She never left my side.

My father was tickled profusely by this scene, by this strange new relationship.

— — — — — — — — — —

[1] Only later while examining the images was I able to identify the insect as a water scavenger beetle (probably Hydrophilus ovatus, but could be Hydrophilus triangularis).  The species look too much alike to be properly identified without being keyed.  The reason I say it’s probably Hydrophilus ovatus is because that species is more common here in the south than is its close cousin, Hydrophilus triangularis.

I completed several code changes and upgrades today both here and at xenogere unseen.  These ranged from the photoblog’s main engine to various security and functional updates for both (especially here).

If you run into problems, feel free to leave a comment on this post or send me an e-mail.  Then again, if both of those form-based avenues malfunction, just send a note to jason <at> xenogere <dot> com instead.

Also, I’m in the process of modifying the categories and links now that al-Zill has been adopted.  You can expect links to break and posts to disappear temporarily as this work moves forward.

I’m additionally working on his new page and will make it available in the sidebar as soon as it’s ready.  Until then, it’s under construction and is rather untidy.  Keep that in mind if you stumble upon it.

After what seemed like an eternity getting from diagnosis to surgery, my father went under the proverbial knife Thursday to remove the aggressive tumors invading his head from within his sinus cavities.  I believe we spent more than 14 hours at the hospital that day and felt at the end of it as though we hadn’t slept in weeks.

Stress, anxiety and lack of rest notwithstanding, however, the surgery went smoothly.  The tumors were not as large as the doctors originally feared, so it only took about two hours to remove the offending tissue.

Additional “unusual growths” were found and removed at the same time.  More testing will be done on those and the inverted papillomas to determine if he needs other follow-up treatments.

Meanwhile, he’s now home and feels much better than anticipated or expected.

Time will tell the ultimate outcome, mind you, but thus far we’re thrilled with the lack of problems, the overall prognosis and his quick recovery.

As for al-Zill, he’s had two introductions to the rest of The Kids.

Grendel has been less than welcoming.  As the alpha male of the clan, this comes as no surprise.  I’ll have to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do too much to damage al-Zill’s calm.

Kako has been…  Well, she’s been Kako.  Rude, way harsh, bitchy…  I like that she’s consistent.  Allow me to note one interesting moment: She walked right by him at one point without realizing who he was, probably assuming she was passing her brother instead of the intruder, and she casually went on with her business without ever looking at him, let alone hissing or growling or swinging or anything else.  I had to laugh about that.

Kazon demonstrated an ambivalent distance at first, a wee bit of hissing rigidity next, and finally topped it off with curiosity mixed with indifference.

Loki surprised me by letting al-Zill lie with him for a bit, a touch of mutual grooming included.  But then the devil showed his true colors with a sneaky bite and slap which sent al-Zill fleeing.  Typical.

Larenti seemed interested yet reserved, sniffing when the opportunity presented itself, offering a few playful swats here and there, and ultimately being the most welcoming tempered with reticence.

Vazra, as expected, showed true feline curiosity at first.  Once he realized no threat existed, he quickly became disinterested.  He’s his own cat, after all, and he really focuses on himself more than anything else.  He did take a few swings when al-Zill invaded his space, but these were nothing more than casual movements not intended to do harm.

As for al-Zill himself, it behooved him to be submissive and friendly, which is precisely what he did.  He offered rubs to every cat he encountered and gave plenty of space when the welcome was less than warm.  He cautiously roamed the entire house, sometimes with tail tucked and sometimes with it held proudly toward the sky.

A great deal of his time was spent investigating the windows and doors with a serious eye toward the patio.  Remember, that has been his safe spot and home for quite some time now.  It must have seemed eerily familiar yet alien to see it from this side of the glass.

He attempted escape once as I came back inside from the patio.  To be honest, it scared the hell out of me that he actually might succeed.  Recapturing him would present little problem, sure, but I’ve always feared for any of The Kids should they get outside.  al-Zill’s neurological problems make that concern sharper and clearer.

I salvaged the situation, however, and he remained in the house where he needs to be.  That ended his free roaming for now and he’s back in the bathroom where he can rest a bit and eat and drink without interference.  This respite also gives the other cats time to relax.

I’ll continue these outings for him over the next week, slowly increasing the time he spends freely outside the bathroom while monitoring for any unpleasantness between him and the other predators ruling the roost.  Unless something cataclysmic happens between now and then, I suspect he’ll be out and about permanently by next weekend.

As for me, I feel like I have a hangover from a week-long drinking binge.  Tired.  Sore.  Anxious.  Befuddled by a mental fog that won’t end.

Considering I was the only one of us children to attend and help with my father’s surgery, and considering I was the only one of four who has been there from the beginning to make sure we got through this successfully, I feel disappointed, heavily burdened, fatigued.

On top of that, capturing al-Zill last weekend and his following adoption and integration since then only added to the weight I carried.  Again I say Mom was right: Life has a way of piling up all at once.

I wish I could say the long weekend will help.  Regrettably, I go on call Monday.  The only rest I will get comes today and tomorrow.  The holiday is lost to me, as is the three-day weekend.

[note that I'll begin work on al-Zill's page in the next few days and will update the links in his posts while migrating those entries into the appropriate categories]

al-Zill spends most of tomorrow back at the vet for more tests.  He received his vaccinations as scheduled, but he also received dire confirmation of neurological damage that must be addressed.

Tumor?  Infection?  Skull damage that penetrated the brain?  Something else?  That’s what we hope to discover with his day-long stay at the doctor’s pad.

I drop him off first thing in the morning on my way to work and pick him up in the evening on my way home.  Poor chap.  I can only hope the result of this analysis does not require my full and immediate attention.

Because after that I head to East Texas for my father’s surgery Thursday morning.

I just spoke to Mom & Dad to confirm our plans.  Things are not as simple as they might seem.

His condition is, at best, poor.  He was unable to stay on the phone long because of that.  With the mix of medicinal changes and general fragility, he simply could not carry on a conversation for more than a few minutes.

As for my mother, she presents great strength that wells up from tremendous spiritual prowess, but even she has been weakened by this ordeal and the crushing weight of survival.  I am not fooled.

She so aptly pointed out how life has piled up this weekend for all of us.  Things are never simple when they matter.

I can’t say how long I’ll be unavailable or if I’ll be able to post updates—or anything else.

Due to The Kids needing more of my time than anticipated, I undoubtedly will spend the weekend jaunting back and forth from Dallas to East Texas.  I don’t see that as a problem.  Whatever it takes…