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Monday, Dec. 27, 2004 / 5:34 p.m. ~The Scent of Her Head~ I love when she sits on my lap at the end of the day, and buries her face in my armpit. She loves the scent of patchouli, and cedar. When I retrieve a wool sweater, or a pair of wool socks from my cedar chest she begs to get inside it. She reaches for whatever woolen, cedar-infused item I have, tries to grab it from me, hisses when I tell her no, it's mine, mine. When I wear wool socks she rubs against my feet, and when I take off my sneakers she buries her head inside them, inhaling deeply in short gasps. Just now, she rubbed her face on my mohair/wool blend socks, and smelled them, and when she was through I picked her up and squeezed her, and buried my own nose in the top of her head, smelled deeply, inahled, took her in, that little head, that special smell, and thought it should come bottled, that smell. She should never disappear from my life, this cat, this Norman girl. She was sick today, and I worried. And now she seems fine, and sometimes I think it's simply old age, and she'll be alright, everything will be alright, and if I ignore every problem that exists, then they will all go away. She rubs against my legs as I write that, stopping on the other side of me, wagging her tail, waiting for me to reach down a hand, then sitting to groom, still she grooms, and this is a good sign. She is fine. The apartment fiasco is something I'd like to sweep under a rug as well, and forget it ever happened, forget that last week my life was so turned upside down, but I called the actual pest control company today, anyway, and they have confusing records, they are not certain of anything, they came in, they exterminated, no, there's a note that they did not, that I refused service, call me, we'll call you, okay, the manager, I'll ask, may I speak to him?, he's not here, we'll call you, we have your number, you are at that number, we'll call you. Nothing is conclusive, yet I've been advised by someone older and wiser not to let it go, though this is all I want, to let it go, to let it all go, to let all the worry, and all the stress and all the anxiety that is not of my choosing, go. Away from me and my life. I love a challenge, but one I choose to take on, not those thrust upon me. I like control, I prefer to be in the midst of severe control, and choice, and when I lose that, I cave. I turn to mush. Today I listened to music and performed perfunctory duties, I got lost in music, I was lost in time, in thought, and all I wanted was to write. I pictured a life as a writer, I imagined my desk, I imagined many lives, and I went back in time in mine, and fragments of thoughts formed, only fragments, and I wanted to note them all, jot them somewhere, write long paragraphs, or short bursts of free form poetry. I could not. I felt suffocated, stifled instead. And confused, as I couldn't remember anything without repeating it incessantly iside my head, without writing it down after repeating it incessantly inside my head, and now it's all gone, all of it. But the obsession with skin against concrete - that was written, thankfully. I couldn't stop thinking about it, wanting to document it in some creative way, and I think I accomplished that. I wonder if I'll be able to remember the smell of Norma's head when she's gone, if I'll listen to music one day, performing some perfunctory task, perhaps whilst at work, and I'll close my eyes, suddenly reminded of squeezing her, holding her upside down, and burying my nose in her head, inhaling in short gasps, or deeply, that smell, her unique and wonderful aroma. Cost of the War in Iraq
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