#833: Hello, My Name Is Schmutzie, And I Am Smartarded (aka A Realized Intention)

Today, I am smartarded. That is what the Palinode and I call our cat, Onion, because he is almost not slow and guileless, but not quite. He knows how to get three thousand pets by bedtime but has not figured out how to push open a door in over a year of watching our other cat do it several times a day. He is smartarded.

the ear that painsThe insides of my ears hurt, but let's move on from that.

Last night, I dreamt that the cool brush of mild winter-morning air was on my cheek. Everything was a dusty shade of perriwinkle in that moment before the sun broke over the horizon, and I inhaled deeply that scent of fresh, clean snow.

And suddenly, winter does not seem so much like a thing to mourn. For someone like me who has spent every winter of her life in some lesser or greater form of emotional distress, this is heartening.

Of course, the Funny left a little while ago anyway, but I am sure that that may correspond to the pain in my ears.

If you could hear the huge fart noise my cheap pants just made on my office chair, this whole thing would have a different tenor.

This whole thing would have a different tenor if I stopped saying things like "different tenor" and "heartening" and "so much like a thing to mourn". Sheesh. Who am I? Some early 1900s virgin authoress? I should bandy a whilst or two about just to overstuff the fainting couch which this entry has become.

the intentionWere we going somewhere? Yes, right, we were. I had an intention floating around here not too long ago, which I tried to weigh down with a stapler, but those intentions are little escape artists they are. Mine's a fugly little bugger who likes to run off with my realizations for twisted inter-wish-verb fornication.

You would think that sort of activity might culminate in the birth of a Realized Intention along the way, but no. When those flighty intentions knock up those self-aggrandizing realizations, what you usually get is sterile as a mule and just as likely to go nowhere.

And lastly, a poem:

With You, It's Always The Poor New-Yorkers

You say, but there's death.
There is hunger and dehydration
and murder and torture.
There are carnivores and weapons.
There is fire and disease.
Cars drive over people,
and the living eat dead food.
Some kids in New York have never
seen a live cow
or walked on soil barefoot
without fear of dirty needles and broken glass.

I want to say that these are only bodies, only bodies,
that we carry them around,
that all of these will go.
In one hundred and fifty years
not one of us will be here
to recognize the face or hair or gait of another.
These bodies are the meat we antagonize,
not the things that flesh them out.
You are confused.

If anything at all,
we are not to be here.
The world despises us
as much as we do any weed,
and we should accept that fact
as much as we accept
that we will kill the mushrooms
that pop up in brief rings before we uproot them
to make way for grass
that we won't allow to grow.

With You, It's Always The Poor New-Yorkers

50x365 #35: Anna S.