The language of heartbreak

A poem written to comemorate the first half of my life, and the annual bad day, of 6 September.

Fragile

I'm watching through a porthole
Into sterility.

This is a place where gender is masked
Hands are allergy-free, non-latex inhumanity
Mouths, tender or vicious, hush themselves
Behind veils of healthy paper, designed
To ward off inevitability.

The man on the table is a man
My man, once, for not long enough:
Cut open, broken, reassembled
One time too many, not often enough.

I'm watching through a porthole
At his last chance.

Another night, another dreamer
It's me again, pushing back against loss and emptiness
By staying asleep
Sobbing into a pillow
Watching you die again.

I'm watching through a porthole
As they crack the envelope.

One year, the dream was of your heart;
They had you on your back for that.

Another hour in the cold lands, my shoulders hunched
White tumbled ranges under frantic moving covers
Last year, it was probably kidneys
They had you on your stomach:
I remember.

Either way
The porthole shows me your last chance
Your very last chance
All gone, no more to come
Our last chance
Dissolving in the acid rain of the date on the calendar.

I'm looking through a porthole
As they pronounce.

The masks are off, the mouths give information
But not comfort, not for me
There is no comfort for me.

Nothing there for me but the march of another year
Time running uphill
Time stopping
Time coming up against the porthole
Laughing in my face

On the other side
Of fragile.

A couple of nice little interviews with yours truly

Here's a nice one: Six Questions With Lady Insanity.

And another, I do the dance of the writerly habits checklist at The Motivated Writer.

Also, about to embark on another possible anthology essay, on the subject of screwing up in a major way, and how it shaped and/or changed my life, and/or made me strong.

Working title: My Favourite Mistake.

Oh, and I want to finish the current chapter of Dark in the Park this weekend. That will put me over 50K words of a projected 60K or thereabouts. So close.....

Why I would like to bitchslap Mayor Gavin Newsom into the next century

We have coyotes in Golden Gate Park.

OK, you all knew that. I've written about it before. I've written about why it's a problem; I've written about why I think the Mayor's office, the do-nothings at Animal Control, the penis-compensating gun-wielding buckaroos from Department of Agriculture who put bullets in the brains of two adult coyotes in the park for nipping at an unleashed (yes, unleashed, by the stupid lawbreaking woman who owns it) Rhodesian ridgeback who came too close to their lair (!), should all be flogged.

It probably sounds contradictory. On the one hand, I'm a TNR woman, working with, for and entirely in favour of the homeless cats in the park (or anywhere else, for that matter). I think - I've said so, loudly and in several public forae, including the San Francisco Chronicle - that allowing the coyotes to breed and run loose in a close urban environment is the stupidest idea I've heard since George Bush last opened his mouth.

On the other hand, I don't want those coyotes harmed. I believe that if you can put a .22 bullet in an animal's head, you can damned well put a tranq dart in its flank, spay/neuter it, make sure it's healthy, give it appropriate innoculations, and release it somewhere more suitable for a large wild animal that has been known to take not only domestic pets, but unattended small children. Pt. Reyes comes to mind, with its over-population of non-indigenous Axis deer. A marriage made in heaven.

So now, our dumbass mayor - probably performing the political equivalent of a blow job on whichever local special interest is leaning on him this week - has introduced a change to the following already extant legislation:

POLICE CODE: EC. 486. FEEDING BIRDS AND WILD ANIMALS PROHIBITED.

It shall be unlawful for any person to feed or offer food to any bird or wild animal in or on any sidewalk, street or highway of the City and County of San Francisco. It shall be unlawful to feed or offer food to any Red Masked Parakeet in any park of the City and County of San Francisco.

(Added by Ord. 268-64, App. 10/2/64; Ord. 133-07, File No. 070467, App. 6/15/2007)

What he wants to add is language that makes it illegal to feed an animal in a park, period.

Gavin? You're an idiot, and you've disappointed me, and pissed me off. Bad idea.

Let's recap, shall we?

He and his pals have allowed an influx of a large predatory species into the closed biosystem of Golden Gate Park. Those large predators are breeding. They're also forming small packs; last night, Nic and I had to jam on our brakes as a group of three adults careened across JFK Drive, on their way out to 10th Avenue at Fulton Street. A friend reported watching a large adult male coyote crossing Frederick Street at Kezar Stadium - wandering its leisurely way into the Haight-Ashbury.

Gavin and the Gang have done precisely nothing to control said population of large predators - which, by the way, have killed or driven out all the foxes, decimated the waterfowl population, eaten what appears to be most of the possums (leaving us with toxic chemicals as the alternative to controlling swarming yellowjackets, gee THANKS, Gavin, you idiot), and are hunting the park's resident population of homeless cats.

What he IS doing is trying to make it illegal to feed a cat, a raccoon, a bird, in Golden Gate Park. So my question is: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Yeah, THAT'S the stuff to feed the troops, Gavin. Absolutely brilliant notion. Let coyotes breed unchecked in the middle of Golden Gate Park. What the hell, when one of the park's chronic homeless kids intervenes because his companion dog is being nabbed by one of the coyotes, and the kid loses an arm in the process, there's nothing to worry about, because, hey, it's just some homeless kid. Who gives a shit, right? They can't vote for you, or sue.

Oh, wait. Kids have parents. And you know, with the coyotes wending their way through the neighbourhoods around the park - I live a stone's throw from the Arguello Gate - there's going to be incidents.

So let me go on the record right now, and say that, when that happens, I will print out this blog and use it as the basis of my own lawsuit, to stop you using one damned red cent of my money to pay the bill.

The coyotes are beautiful, beautiful critters. They're long and lean and elegant. They're also a disaster in the middle of San Francisco. I don't want them harmed, and I don't think they need to be harmed.

But they do need to be elsewhere, and you're ducking the issue by trying the legislative equivalent of "Look! Over there! SOMETHING SHINY!" It won't work, bro. Trust me.

So take this little ordinance of yours, Gavin, and stuff it. And when you're done stuffing it, get off your ass and do something to establish a TNR program for the coyotes. Get them out of the park, out of the city, and off to an environment that can support them.

And stop trying to pass stupid laws that have nothing to do with the problem, you slick little twit.

The typical To-Do list on a Saturday morning (not...)

1. Have second cup of coffee (done).

2. Check Amazon numbers (done; not too bad).

3. Clean out catboxes and feed the outdoor cats (done).

4. Take out trash (done).

5. Balance chequebook (done...sigh).

6. Figure out what I want to read as my excerpt from Truth, in the Middle, my essay in Victoria Zackheim's wonderful For Keeps anthology. Get a stopwatch and time it, since there are several of us reading at different events and the time limit is strictly enforced (can't really do until Nic's out of bed; no clue where the stopwatch is).

7. Write at least half a chapter (1800 or so words) on Dark in the Park, my YA narrated by the homeless cat in Golden Gate Park. It seems to have some interesting threads of magic realism, beyond Dark herself, woven through it. Huh. I did NOT expect that (not done).

8. Start short story, possibly for Victor Infante at the November 3 Journal, about poverty in America. This one's been bubbling round in my head for a couple of days, slowly percolating: I've been listening to a wonderful live duet between Richard Thompson and Shawn Colvin on a Thompson song called "Oh I Swear", about a couple in the UK who don't like each other anymore, but who are too screwed by the economy to split up. It fits for the US right now, and fits well (not done, obviously).

9. Do laundry (not done).

In other news, relating to #7, I'm guest-blogging at Clea Simon's wonderful blog today. But it doesn't seem to be up yet...