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Tula Died

When they die I think in Poetry
Otherwise not
Seems Pain is the only ink
Between us then

I used to confuse her name with his
The boy’s
He said I didn’t know his name
Couldn’t remember it

But it was the same
With all of them
The litany of names
To call them out. The one

The same with the dogs
She’s gone now
Left after I asked her not to
Yet stayed for a while after that

All black and gray now
I sang her song
Kisses all over my face
She knew her name

Tula Died on Sunday, March 13, 2022. She would have been 12 on June 16. There’s no one here now who knows all of the songs: It’s Suppertime!; Lullaby and good night; Let’s go for a walk; Walkin’, Talkin’…

When it’s time, it’s time, but it takes so much along with it. No one tells you that.

Here’s my all-time favorite photo of her. It’s from when she was a pup and just learning things. She was so proud everytime she mastered something, and she loved this hoop to its very death. I was always sad I could never find another to replace it. But that’s OK. Later on in years she decided she would not bring anything back. No retrieving. Nope. Too adult for the childish nonsense. But then she decided she would only listen to instructions by choice. No blind obedience crap. I’m glad I honored her choices and her decision to be an equal partner in our relationship. It worked.

Tula in the park in Manitou

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Books

About the accumulation of books, this is the best I’ve read. As posted by Novel Nerds.

“Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired (by passionate devotion to them) produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can peradventure read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity … we cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance.”
— A. Edward Newton

Photo credit: @tillylovesbooks

This is so true as to at times be pathetic, this star-struck gazing at the shelves. Sometimes I’ve just sat and reveled in, admired the books for what I know they contain. The words they hold. Their mysteries and the memories. I had never considered the reach toward infinity. Eternity maybe, but not infinity.

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Old Faces

In the morning
After taking cold shower
—-what a mistake—-
I look at the mirror.
There, a funny guy,
Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin,
—-what a pity—-
Poor, dirty, old man,
He is not me, absolutely not.
Land and life
Fishing in the ocean
Sleeping in the desert with stars
Building a shelter in the mountains
Farming the ancient way
Singing with coyotes
Singing against nuclear war—
I’ll never be tired of life.
Now I’m seventeen years old,
Very charming young man.
I sit quietly in lotus position,
Meditating, meditating for nothing.
Suddenly a voice comes to me:
“To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror.”
—Nanao Sakaki

Posted by Poetic Outlaws

Someone once said “Old age is a terrible thing to happen to a 12-year-old child.” That’s one of those things you wish you’d said and think perhaps you did.

The old man said “Yeah, that’s the truth all right. Doesn’t matter. You brush your teeth and go to bed. Soon enough you die anyway. Then you don’t have to think about it.” Sounds like a poem to me, I said.

He said, “I never wrote poetry. Maybe the guys who do don’t die. They’ll still get old though. So I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Still, I guess I’d rather just grow old.”

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Just Another Dream

IPosted by Poetic Outlaws

In my current waking-dream the MS for “Last House” is with the readers/editors and I too, am making yet another pass through. But there continues this waking-dream that is a snow-filled wonder. And there must be caution in the bedtime. Allowing the mind to go too far, too loose, too willing to float into that abyss is dangerous. There is a point of no return. We do not want to join Nietzsche in those last hours of the burning limbs, the frozen lake.

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Too Much & Dying Too

So much has been happening that it has been difficult to even attempt a sort-through to post. Indeed, where to begin.

First, I had another (twice now) trip to the hospital—pericardial effusion—wherein the people all thought it was a heart attack. It wasn’t. Either time. But apparently all of the medical paraphernalia thinks I am so they go with that rather than my insistence “I’m not having a heart attack!” *sigh* So. Now they have to find the cause of my attacks which are painful beyond belief.

In the operating room: The most exciting part of the whole thing is that I coded—yes, died!—and that’s where it got interesting rather than just painful. It was no big deal at all and there were no lights and out-of-body experiences or awareness or floating. Nothing. A great big huge black nothing.

Just before the Black in a millisecond I had an awareness something was happening and a wondrous peace wherein nothing mattered and then… Another second and I woke up, knew I had been “somewhere” and asked what happened. They said I coded twice (wrong count, only one, extended) and they had to resuscitate me. So while trying to “save my life”—in a non-heart attack—they killed me.

It is impossible to describe because the observer, and all consciousness was gone. As soon as we say nothing—we have something. It is an experience that can only be experienced. I do think that I stayed in my body because I wasn’t gone long enough. It was less than a minute. Perhaps it takes longer for the full-death experience.

It should be noted that this was Not a heart attack. It was Not heart failure. It was that my heart stopped. Those are all different things. Apparently the heart stopped due to the dye they were inserting into my veins to find the blockage (there was none) that was causing the heart attack that wasn’t.

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Meanwhile. During and after recovery I’ve been doing a rewrite of a novel I wrote a while back called “Last House.” I was always fond of it and thought it should have another look through. I also wrote a short story and entered it in a couple of contests. That’s in addition to the family history I pluck away at and photos with comments I send to the family.

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And the Snow! We’ve had a couple of snow storms that have been just glorious. The dog and I go out at all hours to play and enjoy. Especially deep into the night when no one else is around. It’s so incredibly joyous with mounds of white and blowing wind and the silence and the glory! Watching a black dog jump and run against all of this becomes a thing of the Spirit. Other worlds hover about, waver in the light that suddenly glints against the sweeping snow.

Matisse—Posted by Ravenous Butterflies