Category Archives: The Kids Photos

Little Terrorist

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Don’t let the innocent face fool you…

al-Zill sitting on a cat tree and looking out the window (2008_12_17_002503)

al-Zill might look sweet and cuddly, and knowing he has brain damage from a pre-rescue coyote attack might lull one into a false sense of pity, but he’s a little terrorist.

Sure, he’ll lie in my lap and look tender and adorable, but then he’ll turn around and bite me for no reason.

Sure, he’ll stand and groom one of his siblings with all the affection he can muster, but then he’ll lean back and smack ’em upside the head just when they’re thinking the world couldn’t get any better.

Sure, he’ll give kisses for just about any reason, but then he’ll keep giving them until he’s worn the tissue down to the bone.

Sure, he’ll sit by my feet and soak up all the petting he can get, but then he’ll randomly bite a toe or sink his claws into my ankle.

Sure, he’ll curl up under the covers with me when it’s time to go to bed, but then he’ll attack me the first time I move.

Sure, he’ll dash to the water and food bowls so he can sit beside one of the other cats while they eat or drink, but then he’ll pounce on them once their head is down.

Sure, he’ll go to sleep nearby, but then he’ll suddenly attack me or one of the other cats and send all of us careening out of bed.

Sure, he’s a little terrorist.  And I love him just the way he is.

the ghost of you whispers

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A close-up of Larenti (20080927_12938)

scarcely of the twilight in summer’s breath
you walk unmoving above nowhere

and I, hardly the old youth of your gaze,
see the sound of autumn’s valley
where you do not stand

over the brow of winter’s hill
silence brightly listens for the scent of your voice,
when your vanishes enormously sing alone
—yet only as perfection is alone

in beginnings end the blossoms of wishes
while endings writhe in withering leaves,
so blooms dying darkly rest upon lonely nights

afar off in unfelt thoughts not forgotten
toward us the ghost of you whispers

[for and of Larenti, whose absence weighs heavily on me today for reasons I cannot explain, an old wound freshly torn open]

Eyes in the dark

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All I want to do is change the lens on the camera.  I pull off the 400mm telephoto lens, set the camera body in my lap, retrieve the smallest lens and put it on the camera.

Meanwhile, Vazra has taken station in front of the fireplace where he sits atop a box of computer supplies I temporarily pulled from its hiding place.  He watches me closely waiting for me to notice him and give him what he wants: some attention.

So I slip the smaller lens onto the camera, twist it into the bayonet mount until it locks into place, set the camera back in my lap and pin it down with my hand while I put the telephoto lens in its carrying case.

That’s when the shutter snaps.  Oops, I left the camera turned on…

A close-up of Vazra sitting in front of the fireplace (2009_03_01_011617)

I can’t imagine ever capturing a better mistake.  That the camera was level is miracle enough, but that it focused on Vazra and had settings adequate to capture his visage in a dark room surprised the bejeesus out of me.

Maybe I should try this technique more often.

Remembering that which is lost

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Of all the rash and midnight promises made in the name of love, none is more certain to be broken than “I’ll never leave you.”  What time doesn’t steal from under our noses, circumstance will.  It’s useless to hope otherwise, useless to dream that the world somehow means us good.  Everything of value, everything we cling to for our sanity, will rot or be snatched in the long run, and the abyss will gape beneath us, and suddenly, without so much as a breath of explanation, we will be gone.  Professions of love and all…

A close-up of Larenti as he looks down on me from atop the bed (2009_02_28_011325)

I remember thunderstorms with torrential rain.  Would he be okay?

A wet cat speaking to me from outside the fence, a feline begging for shelter, for comfort, for assurance that all would be well.

I welcomed him to the patio, to protection from the tempest.

I remember chastising him for hunting rabbits, for bringing them to my doorstep as though meant as a gift.

A wild cat, a feral soul falling prey to companionship.

I let him leave the creatures so I could quickly scoop them up and rush them to safety.

I remember the first time he let me touch him, his thick fur resting warmly against my hand, his eyes watchful yet trusting, his purr sudden and powerful.

A lonely cat seeking that which we all seek: belonging and friendship.

I gave only as much as he would allow, sought to be welcoming so he could take the next step.

I remember the day he moved in, met his new roommates, explored his new home, found happiness.

A loving cat, a spirit divine yet frightened who wanted only to belong.

I let him belong, made him welcome.

I remember that night not too long ago, that fateful evening when so much emotion came crashing down under the weight of ending.

A beautiful cat, a giant who cowered before shadows and needed love as much as air.

I lamented then what was lost.

And I remember…

[introduction paraphrased from the beginning of the first chapter in Clive Barker’s Cabal]