The Argument:
Mirrors, mirror.
Of Lilys and remains.
A close call.
Episode 7.1: Named True from Vengeance, My Heart (episode link), my serialized Sepulchral-Gothic Western novel, is now live at ravensweald.art.
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i rust stain the red
under cirrus skies
slipping umbral to gloam—
faces all turn away
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the words turn to blur
every voice fades
to white noise
dew wet trousers on
an early kneeling morn
chapped lips imagine
kisses in chill mists
dreams are made of
morns made like these—
the smell of apples
drifting in
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As prepared for the inevitability of such things when your vet calls you up with blood work results and does a lot of heavy sighing during the conversation, it is never easy to accept that a pet is dying. And probably faster than you had hoped.
One of my Maine Coons, Fennekin (named after the Pokémon), has been ill for a while. She was borderline having kidney issues a year ago, but it rapidly progressed until she was showing the beginnings of kidney failure just a month or so ago.
She was promptly put on a special diet with additive to help her kidneys. We thought we saw improvement, even. Until we didn’t.
Last night, she refused her dinner. And treats. She loves treats and loves that she’s been getting stinky, fishy, wet food while the others get kibble. She skipped breakfast and went into a space away from everyone. She refused lunch.
We’re taking her into the vet today, not expecting to bring her home. For thousands of dollars, they can keep her alive. Maybe a month or two. Maybe as little as three days. But her death is inevitable. And soon.
There are people who will spend their life savings keeping a pet alive without once questioning if the pet has any meaningful quality of life while they are kept alive on infusions and tubes. I’m not that kind of person, which will upset some readers. I ask myself, as miserable as she looks right now, if Fenn would thank me for the ordeal or if she might be happier without feeling so damned sick.
And it makes me a little ill myself to know that I have pretty much made the decision that if they can’t keep her alive for the long weekend through some magic so everyone can say goodbye, I’m okay with letting her go.
The appointment is in less than 90 minutes. We’ll see what they say then, but the prognosis from my perspective is not good. She looks like she feels horrible.
What I will miss most is her trilling as she follows me around, wanting me to talk to her, give her a scratch under the chin.
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i can't help but wonder
when you talk,
if you talk to me
or if that is just dream
speaking past soft veils
perhaps it is just a dream
echoing another dream
in which there is nothing
but a dream left for
anything to say
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From deep within the weald, there is a longing to sit with, to learn from.
Go fly to the mountain, raven, sit on the stone-filled heath. Become the fells, be come the high places. Better yet: sink down into the underwood deadfall and loam, wrap roots around and tangle hair with moss, lichen the bone. Grow antlers. Become the stone. Who needs these wings?
They come. They receive. They go.
Grow to flint, knapped and worn. Become the old trunk they come sit with and exchange, clear off scalloped white fungus as they while away until there is nothing more. They take that away too, and cast away when bored. But that is the way.
When you are not looking, comes the wolf. Not just a wolf. The winter wolf.
And being stone will then be the whiling away while the longing melts of winter.
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we are twist until we are break this cats cradle all at tangle we are caught between day & night
A rune poem, based on an Elder Futhark rune selected at random.
Today’s rune is dagaz, which has been translated as “daybreak”, that transitional moment between night and day. By extension, it might also be interpreted as “twilight” and is representative of liminality, transformation, the space between worlds, and suggests walking in both the material world and otherworld.
Please visit my Elder Futhark pages at sceadugenga.com for additional interpretations of the runes based on multiple references and personal reflection.
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i river the faces &
cling no more
i have tried
red flags followed
under alpine stone
skitter scree grey
and cut to bone
the fox screams with me
and feathers down to black
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sometimes we needs slendering
between their slipstreams
flesh knifed and stretched
beyond the thin and lean
and i know my blind skein
draws taut against the choke
clenched against the screams
my everyday halloween
absurd and obscene
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