Tablesaw!

Psyche and I hoped that this weekend would be a relaxing one of sleeping in, resting, eating good food, and maybe putting together a bookcase or two. That is not what is happening.

On Friday morning, Psyche got a call that her step-grandfather had died. We knew he'd gone to the hospital the day before and we assumed that it was related, but that turned out not to be the case. He had gone to the ER, because of elevated white blood cells, but after several tests, everything seemed to be fine and he was sent home. He spent the morning in high spirits, and collapsed quietly from something sudden.

Part of moving to Santa Maria was to be closer to Psyche's family, but we didn't expect to be called for something so dire so soon. When we arrived, we relieved one of her aunts to take care of some more business, and Psyche and I were there when the undertakers arrived to remove the body, and we spent most of the day there with her grandmother. Today, more aunts and Psyche's mother arrived.

Eventually we got the chance to show many of them around the house. This is earlier than we'd expected. We are still sans couches and other entertainment furniture, but we did get to show everyone around, and they loved to our tiny pets. It also gave them a space to gather and discuss things away from Psyche's grandmother, which I think was a welcome break.

Right now, I think we're all trying to keep Psyche's grandmother socially occupied so the home doesn't feel empty, but I imagine it's worse at night as more people leave. We'll see how things go in the coming weeks.

Forgive me another extended interval. Obviously, a great many things have been happening that I have not written about here, but I found myself staring at the Twitter app and knowing that it was not the appropriate place for how I was feeling. And so I return, because in a few hours, we are saying good bye to our dear cat Psyche.*

I met Psyche eight years ago, when when I still didn't like cats. I moved in with Psyche five years ago, when I tolerated cats (and had a better allergy solution). I don't know when I'd say I started loving cats, but it was somewhere before Psyche got permission to sleep in the bedroom, reversing my demands for a dander-free sleeping area. I've gotten so used to it that I'm not even cranky when I wake up to pick one of her whiskers from my whiskers.

I've known Psyche for a while now, but my wife has known her for twenty years, more than half her life, since before college and through several relationships. I'm barely a blip in her life compared to Psyche. Before I knew her, Psyche had a life as an outdoor cat on a farm, hunting birds and other critters. Psyche was friends (maybe frenemies) with Boo, whom my wife adopted one year after Psyche, and who passed away herself last year.

I take it back, I do know when I realized I loved cats. I came home from work one day, and Psyche came up to me immediately and started crying out stressed, and I instantly knew exactly what she was saying. We'd had contractors in earlier that day, and though we'd told them to mind the cats, one of them was careless and Boo had wandered into the hall of the apartment building. Psyche knew she was out, and we looked for her that night. We found her in a staircase not that long after, and everything felt right again.

It wasn't long after Boo passed that Psyche would start crying out when she was alone. And around then is when we made sure she wasn't alone at night any more.

I knew Psyche as a cat who liked to do things her way, on her schedule. She'd have a few spots she liked to stay for hours: on our bed, on the guest bed, on the northernmost seat at the kitchen table, and on the back of the couch (almost always on top of the remote control). And she loved laps. There were times when I'd work from home with my computer in my lap, and she'd sit on both of my wrists. And we'd stay like that as long as all I had to do was keep typing.

We've known that her kidneys weren't doing well for over a year, and she had a battle with pancreatitis where we were giving her subcutaneous fluids every day. But she rallied strongly, and was as stubborn and talkative as ever. ( CW: animal sickness ) We've arranged for a vet to make a housecall so that we can say goodbye to her where she's comfortable.

Tonight, we opened a can of tuna just for her, and she lapped up the water inside. We took her into the backyard and let her wander a few steps, then my wife held her in the red and blue floodlights
until she got cold. My wife and Psyche are in bed together now, sharing a final night together. I'm going to join soon, but I won't sleep. I'm going to let the sun rise and finish the vigil and handle the arrangements. And I'm going to miss her so much.


* A while back, my wife (temptingcuriosity) chose the pseudonym "Psyche" for this blog, but all references in this post are to the cat Psyche (who was the inspiration for the nym).

Recently, a member of the npl passed away. Her hame was Mary Youngquist Hazard, but she was known to the Krewe as Nightowl.

A few weeks ago, she sent a note with a self-addressed postcard asking me about a recent puzzle I had authored. I thought it was a cool thing to do, but with the crazyness of the past two months, I forgot to respond. It's a bit late now.

This poem was written by her, and it appears in a few places on the web. It's a good poem with a remarkable restraint. Godspeed, Nightowl.

Winter Reigns

Shimmering, gleaming, glistening glow--
Winter reigns, splendiferous snow!
Won't this sight, this stainless scene,
Endlessly yield days supreme?

Eying ground, deep piled, delights
Skiers scaling garish heights.
Still like eagles soaring, glide
Eager racers; show-offs slide.

Ecstatic children, noses scarved--
Dancing gnomes, seem magic carved--
Doing graceful leaps. Snowballs,
Swishing globules, sail low walls.

Surely year-end's special lure
Eases sorrow we endure,
Every year renews shared dream,
Memories sweet, that timeless stream.

— Mary Youngquist

FriNYTX: 17:30.

I'm really not happy with my life right now, and I don't feel like doing laundry. I haven't felt like doing laundry for a while now, but that was more of a general indolence. Today, I just can't bring myself to go out and deal with a loud room of angry machines churning and churning away. Last night I had a horrible dream in which somebody died and I woke up sobbing. And now, things are just wrong, wrong, wrong.

I haven't felt like writing much since getting back from the NPL convention, and I'm not wholly sure why. I have been in a big reading mood, though. Over the past few days, I've been slowly working through The Canary Trainer, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, and Swords Against Death, depending on which I decide to pick up at a given time. I've also been recovering a bit. And out a bit. My cousin just returned from military training, a kind of post-boot-camp graduate school for those training to be officers. He regaled us with stories of the Fear-Factor-esque program (designed to eradicate potential sources of panic in those who would have to issue orders), and in return, we filled him in on what had happened regarding my aunt's death. Shortly before he entered this program, my cousin had told him that if something happened to her mother, they were not going to call him, because they wanted him to be able to complete the program without feeling obliged to help. He didn't hear the news until a few weeks after. Now he's back and we're putting the pieces back together for him.

( Also, I've started running again. )

SunNYTX: 31:27. The last step was a little confusing, but all in all it was a lot of fun.

The funeral is over, and perhaps, things can become something approaching normal again. I don't have high hopes that I'll be able to get my sleeping re-regulated by tomorrow for work, though. There's a lot of it that I really don't want to talk about, though. It was hard, since, more than sadness, I was feeling rage. It puts one into a more awkward position in large uncomfortable groups. When one is sad, then if one breaks down, there are tears, perhaps a swaying of legs, and people to support one. When one is angry, then if one cracks, blunt objects come into contact with things or persons from which the should be kept away.

Also, I heard from Will Shortz at the New York Times passing on my crossword puzzle. A while back, Paula Vogel visited UCSB, and I sat in on a miniclass she taught for the playwriting classes. (At the time, I wasn't yet enrolled in the classes.) Rather than delve into the minutiae of craft, she spent a great deal of time instructing us on How to Read Rejection Letters. She had several signs and tricks, the most memorable (and most useless on email) was to wet the paper of the letter (possibly by licking your thumb and smudging) to see if the signature was signed or Xeroxed. Anyway, it's a very helpful skill. Using it, I am heartened by Shortz's note: "The theme, I think, isn't really a New York Times sort of subject. Something entirely pop culture-related like this would probably be better suited for a publication with a younger audience, like Games magazine." How do I read this? that the quality is up to par (which was a bigger anxiety for me), but the subject matter makes it an inappropriate for the audience. Vogel was very big on this, understanding from a rejection letter when the editor (or artistic director) thinks your work is bad and when he or she thinks it's good or interesting or promising but can't select it for other reasons. I'll probably send this on to Games and Kappa (Games' parent) and start working on the next one.

Onward and upward.

Yesterday, I didn't think I'd get any sleep, so I called into work that I wouldn't be there. I didn't get to sleep until about 8 p.m. This morning I was feeling better, but now I'm feeling much, much worse.

Everything about me feels like shit right now.

MonNYTX: 4:45. MonLATX: 3:08. TueNYTX: 5:46. TueLATX: 6:30. Crossing of 3D&14A was a bitch. WedNYTX: 7:30. WedLATX: 5:30.