• too many disco adventures

    While fussing about in my kitchen I heard a sound coming from the backyard garden. Thinking it was the feral cats harassing the octopus again, I went out with my copy of Marcel Proust’s dog’s masterpiece ‘In Search of Lost Kibbles’ and began to read out loud.

    Just as I got through the first few sentences and the cats all ran for cover, a hooded figure emptied her bucket of cat food under my garden table, stood up, and started rummaging through her bag.

    The outlaw librarian again. The last time I saw her she billed me for books taken out of a fictitious library. Rather than find the fictitious characters that checked out the original fictitious books to see if I could get my money back, I find it’s easier to just update my blog on a more frequent basis.

    In a hurry I closed the book and pulled a bag out of my pajamas top pocket and offered it to her.

    She looked in the bag I gave her and then at me with an eyebrow raised. “It’s a bag of misty rain. Really?”

    Stammering, “Look, I know it’s not fresh but it still tastes good with tomatoes.”

    Her eyebrow still raised, “You think everything tastes good with tomatoes.”

    I started moving some of the cat food around so there wasn’t a riot when they came back to eat. “I had too many adventures to escape this past year. I didn’t realize there were so many.”

    Two of us created a fire in the woodstove, two of us put the food away in the root cellar below.
    Two of us brought out blankets to warm and dry ourselves while the fire grew.
    Two of us started preparing a meal for four.
    We four moved quietly within the small cottage above the cave, tending to our warmth, food, and comfort.

    “Those four need to establish communication with the other shelters. A sanctuary that no one knows about isn’t.”

    I think I remember Pomeeni saying something after that but when I looked up she was gone and I was in my bed just waking up.

    She didn’t bill me this time but every time I look outside now the birds are always gossiping about the weather. I think I’ll take the hint.

    “He’s the crimson in your face du jour
    The fiddler in your darkest night
    He’s the melody without a cure
    And Rome is burning, but that’s alright”

    -The Disco Strangler, The Eagles (Glenn Lewis Frey / Don Felder / Donald Hugh Henley)

  • let’s talk about the weather

    I was just looking at some of my old posts and made a good observation some time before and after the main block of time defined by the pandemic:[*]
    https://mattqmcgovern.wordpress.com/2019/11/05/tea-ceremony/
    https://mattqmcgovern.wordpress.com/2022/11/23/tea-for-melpomene/

    *[Side-stepping the fact that the block of time defined by the pandemic varies widely for most people, not excluding the fact that for many there is no “after” to it.]

    What I find most interesting is that both posts were about tea. I don’t remember doing that on purpose when I wrote “Tea for Melpomene”. I just remember being relieved to get ANY post written after three years.

    Before the lockdown, I was looking for the space – for the ceremony – for the escape. In 2019, I wrote about “thinking of characters in my head that are saving the world somewhere involving the preparation of food on a windy day”.

    In the latter post I wrote in italics my thoughts on how a societal lockdown should have been a personal heaven for me:
    “We hammered away at the ice wall until the window above the door was visible.
    In time we were able to pry it open, our hands bleeding and frozen.
    After squeezing through, we moved the weakest of us into deeper chasms to be given aid and manufacture warmth.
    The weakest were the first to fight and some would not stay long inside.
    Our preparations were more than adequate though we needed to remind ourselves of this.”

    Here in 2023, I find myself continuing a ceremony/ritual that I had started, remarkably enough, in 2019. I decided to take time off the week immediately following the clock change for daylight savings. The first time was in 2020 and I took the whole week off. This ended smack dab right before the lockdown itself. I actually went back to work to an empty building and city center in Philly before going home later to work remotely.

    The next time I did it was this year, taking 3 days off to go to New York. It’s like I’m almost celebrating a ritual of changing the clocks (that every single person I know hates) and going somewhere to acknowledge it. It would be cool if I had a clock in Queens or somewhere I had to manually change.

    Lately I find myself needing to do more than schedule time to go to New York. I need something every day sometimes. A ritual or ceremony to remind me of it, bring me closer to it, etc.

    That quote of mine in November of 2022 touches upon some important topics and looking at the two posts emphasizes their importance. I need to take more time to devote to this awareness, this practice, this space where Melpomene is a local lady from South Philly who visits me when I feed the feral cats in my backyard and wants me to write and be well. #pomeeni #phillyaccent

    I had originally wanted to dump an idea for mental health awareness into this space, and how I liken it to awareness of the weather for ancient ship captains. Before apps, radios, and engines, those old sea salts would just look at the sky and feel the wind to determine what the weather would be like the next day. Making the correct determination and charting their course appropriately could be the difference between life and death back then.

    I see individuals today as those old sea captains were back then…with a need to look to the weather to determine the right course.

    This isn’t just something to do every once in a while but more often.

    Melpomene in the Vatican. Hopefully I get to see her in August.

    “I wanted to be with you alone
    And talk about the weather”
    -Head Over Heels, Tears for Fears

  • muse intern shift

    Too much peppermint syrup again. Maybe it’s time to stop going to that coffee shop, he thought to himself as he changed into a raccoon.

    Wow, I’ll be able to eat hot dogs again, he thought as he wondered if he was still a he. He? looked down to see and unsurprisingly forgot all about his internship that technically was over moments earlier.

    Much more covered in fur than he was a minute before, he/she couldn’t tell so decided to ask one of the very shocked looking customers in the waiting room in front of him/her/it.

    “Are raccoons sex easy to figure out?” he asked the room.

    “Does this mean you’re not going to look up my existence account?” a large and very newly hatched bird with a polar bear’s head said, her cracked egg all around her.

    “What’s wrong with it…” the raccoon said, running a hand scanner over the sheet the bear-bird left on the desk. “Ah yes, you definitely exist. Or wait, you DID exist. Roughly a hundred million years ago. Do you know anything about raccoon gender?”

    The bird bear’s eyebrow shot up.

    “Pomini gonna be pissed if you leave and there’s birth fluid all over the floor.” ArJee the possom from down the hall said, carrying a filebox into the room.

    “Hey, my internship ends when it ends. I don’t control when I change, I was a cat a minute ago.”

    “Whose fault is that, probably the same fault as baby bird-bear there. They making realities off schedule again and you’re here so you know what Pomini say. Hey, this my song.” ArJee turned up the computer speakers to Nine Inch Nails’ Pinion.

    Knowing Pomini, officially known as Melpomene and one of the original Muses, firmly believed in the mantra “You broke it you bought it” and used it liberally, if not always correctly. It happened on your watch, it’s your business.

    “Are you a bird or a bear?”, Raccoon said, turning down the music and sitting down at the computer.

    “I started out as a bear, next thing I was in this egg. And my papers are no good they said.”

    “Ok. Here’s the bathroom key, clean up and decide what you want to be, I’ll get your paperwork squared away as soon as I figure out my gender. You sure nobody knows a raccoon’s gender?”, Raccoon said this last to the room and looking down at the computer

    “I’m told not to get close enough to find out, they’re supposed to be wild. And you’re a lady raccoon.” this voice came from the tall german shepherd, watching the bear move off into the bathroom, dripping egg fluid behind her.

    Finding this out was welcome, but the smart-ass dog knowing it first was annoying. “Damn right we wild, not like you ever gonna find out, pup. Whoever’s putting their own reality in the gallery, are they signing their own name at least? And where’s there a hot dog cart?”, the raccoon found it easier to get settled into her new reality when an attitude was percolating. Some things didn’t change at least.

    “You’ll have to ask the hot dog vender hisself, out in front. He’s your reality forger.” the dog said, jotting something down in a little notebook, and walking toward the door.

    “Oh, a detective then. Before you arrest them, can you hold them so we get our existences filed, also I want a hot dog.”