Sunday, August 3, 2014

A Plethora of the Swirling Universe

If Josie were a cartoon character his name would be Jumpin’ JoJoBeans. And he may have once been, you know, in the funny pages of, say, 1933, in Akron, Ohio, and he has been on the lam for years and rather enjoying it.

one morning

In another lifetime, I bet Louis and I were the best of friends, since birth.

The Wishnick
Google “wishnick,” you’ll get trolls, those funky, naked, wild-haired dolls of the 1960s and ’70s and many more decades. At one time they were called Wishniks. The history is dense. It spans not only generations but oceans and then there’s this lawsuit … well. The Wishnick I have (intentionally spelled with a “c” and an arbitrary uppercase “W”) looks very little like a troll but for the wild hair, which is a great poof of indigo blue yarn.

my bedside Wishnick

I bought my Wishnick at the farmers market and was told it was a Wishnick and got a load of instructions on how to use it properly when making a wish, to ensure said wish coming true, which is why I went to the internet, to see if these instructions were for real or just something this little girl was making up as she went along and I followed. But, I found no instructions for wishing on a Wishnik (the troll version). So I decided to accept the rules I had been given which means, for one, I cannot tell you my wishes. But I do believe I can tell you that I have wished. But only if I have woken up in the middle of the night and felt so inclined and reached out for my Wishnick with the poof of indigo blue hair and made my wish quietly in my head so no one could hear, not even Jumpin’ JoJoBeans, who sleeps at my side. I try make simple wishes, and it is a very comforting thing to do in the middle of the night.

Neal 10508
So I woke up the other morning with a repetition in my head: Neal 10508, Neal 10508, Neal 10508. Was it the remnant of a dream in which I had to remember Neal one-o-five-o-eight, or … ?

This Year’s Fawns

The Continuing Adventures of Elliott
One morning Elliott crawled into Josie’s bed and spent the day there. This bed is in Josie’s crate which during the week is underneath the kitchen table, which is where I work, making candles, and so that is where Josie likes to sleep. But this day—Uh oh! Occupied! Josie let Elliott have the bed. Elliott fills the bed from bolster to bolster, from fore to aft, from side to side.

Another morning Elliott pounced on the one thing I’ve bought for Josie that he has never paid any attention to—a small hard plastic bone. Elliott pounced on it, batted it around a bit. Josie bounded over, watched, wagged his tail. Elliott feigned indifference and walked away. Josie returned to his spot in the chair by my side. A few minutes passed. Then, Elliott returned, pounced on the hard plastic bone, batted it around a bit, fell onto his side, reached out with a paw, teased the bone, made it move. Josie bounded over. Watched. Wagged his tail. Elliott stood up, walked over to the door, sat down, stared at it. I got up, opened the door, Elliott went out.

Life in this Eden
One day a while back a neighbor stopped by. She was carrying a dead bird, held it out to show me. She was looking for a place to bury it.

The Bird in the Garden
A dead bird was found in the garden. My neighbor picked it up, placed it atop the hose wrapped around the hose reel, said she would take it with her, bury it later. Later, after she was gone, I noticed the bird atop the hose. She had forgotten to take it with her. It was an unremarkable bird in size and coloring, but it did lack a head. On its back atop the hose, its feet stuck straight up in the air.

jumpin’ jojobeans, the garden, no dead bird

Let the Season Play
A big thing or two or three happened in the world of baseball this week as there was a trading deadline (a mad swapping between teams of well-known, coveted players as well as those mysterious players “to be named later”) and you know how people like to talk and speculate about these things, about what might happen, about what has happened, about what will happen. Well, one perk of being a Cub fan is that at this point in the season most often you can just sit back, relax, enjoy, not worry, be happy. There’s nothing to get too excited about. Nothing to get too upset about, either (well, there’s always something), so let everyone else fuss and fret and boast and bemoan and, I bet, waste their nightly wishes on grandiose, other-worldly things. Well, what do I know about it? This year, because I recently saw the movie “Moneyball,” I think I’ll keep an eye on the Oakland Athletics. See how they do on the homestretch into October. (Let’s see now, what’s their Cub Factor again?)

Meanwhile, there’s always possum delays and the like.

Mornings on the Porch
Still, quiet, damp—a little haze burning off with the rising sun. An earthly heaviness. Later, a plethora of insects. Josie will chase butterflies, hornets, flies, bees, and he will watch ants and stick his nose into their business. He will jump at grasshoppers and snap at mosquitoes. He will sit at my feet, rest in the sun.

saturday night, doing dishes