how we feel...

Bloomed (A Sonnet)

2012-02-06T09:30:00.004-05:00

Bloomed

So slow to bloom and now so fast to fade!

My Amaryllis standing three-feet tall

goes conjuring those promises we made:

Longevity--predictor of the fall.

How we wished we could hold on to youth,

humorous when scrutinized by light!

The plaintive cry of dove is more the truth,

so let that flower pierce our blinded sight.

We want it; drink it in; empty the cup.

Swift-gone, imagining the empty pot,

my bulb in paper brown and cozied up

in some dark cellar, yes, like it or not!

Lamenting isn’t going to change a thing;

He knelt and kissed my hand, planting the ring.

Kay Weeks

2.6.12

Goodwill Donation Pick Up (A Sestina)

2012-02-05T06:55:00.003-05:00

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Goodwill Donation Pick Up

I’ve stuffed, this day, into three tallish bags,

Small reminders of what comes and goes,

Outmoded sleeves, decaying styles, frayed events--

Huddled as one, they wait for pick up at my door.

It just goes to show the even flow of things:

I trim; and Goodwill leaves three more.

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Can’t our days give us any more

Than this constant shedding of skin, tied in bags

And affirming the immutable ordering of things

When we divest “down” to others?—Is that how it goes

As the driver comes to our white, three-paneled wooden door

To pick up our cast-offs and we deem it a “good will event”?

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

What was the date of your last charitable event

And when you gave to others with less, did you feel more?

And when those Trick or Treaters come to your door

Do you give them candy and gum in little plastic bags?

For me, anyway, give and take is very much like comes and goes,

Like, you know, vis a vis, the immutable ordering of things.

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Maybe tell me--do you think about these things

Or do they only arise at a fund-raising event?

Yes? Oh well, in a way that’s how it goes

But I had always hoped for more

Than love and such, stuffed in three tall bags

And set out for Goodwill—and shut my door!

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

And isn’t the mouth kind of like a door

Taking it all in, and then speaking of things

Both joyful and painful; I see side-by-side bags

Holding promises and dreams, those hoped-for events

Such as a series of peaceful days and loving things

But not ever getting them, and is that how it goes?

The Good Humor truck still comes and goes;
Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Years ago, my brother, Scott, ran out the door

To see what frozen joy it held--and more!

Now, the Good Will truck links me to those better things

As time makes obsolete both clothes and past events,

Pushing all into three tall yellow bags.

What comes ultimately goes. Think of them as--you know—things.

You can choose a charity event or Goodwill truck at the door!

But don’t you want more out of life than three tall bags?

Kay Weeks on 2.5.12 and revised 2.7.12

In Glendale, CA in the 1940s, the GoodWill truck would leave bags for the next pick up...if you put out three bags of clothes, you got three new empty bags...something like that. Thus, the reference to the three...not symbolic, but embedded in fact. With appreciation to Melody Gough, whose clear and sensitive readings and comments always improve my poetry!

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Kay Weeks on 2.5.12

Clock: web capture

Art: Trudy Babchak

The Dilettante's Lecture (POEM)

2012-01-30T05:01:00.001-05:00

The Dilettante’s Lecture

Let me describe to you

what I’m holding in my left hand:

These bright options,

this series of pale promises

to be engaged, these diamonds too small to wear,

glaciers miniaturized by grating time

until they slip and flow

through one subtle fracture in the mind.

I find that in the singular, sand’s pure form,

an incomparable crystal, a sparkling gem

like the verb “to care.”

Dare I add, I prefer it by the handful?

That way there seems to be more.

The trick is to keep it ever moist and malleable,

dampened by an inlet of waves

lapping on the morning shore.

Take yesterday.

I made a perfect heart and set it out to dry.

Come sunup

And we both cracked, cracked and crumbled

Like a pile of sifted flour

tumbling before the crust.

We blew directionless,

north, south, east, west.

I have here a large bucket of jewelry

awaiting your appraisal. Yes!

I’m consenting to one more test!

You say it’s worthless!

But it started out heavy and grew heavier.

I held it for so long it was beginning to seem real.

That must be good for something.

If nothing else, I’m a perpetual embryo,

both prolific and prosaic,

like dust begetting dust.

Well, there are lots of others, I guess,

it’s just a matter of finding them.

Look here, my friends,

I’m shining again. Listen!

I’m breathing sapphires

and singing of golden shovels.

Kay Weeks, c. 1973 AND POSTED IN 2012...

Gray January Morning

2012-01-12T07:53:00.018-05:00

Gray January Morning

For Margaret Scott

Gray day,

so sad and asking,

akin to winter thoughts,

but also a kind of cat-soft joy--

Let your intermittent rain

slowly stroke--perhaps to bend

into touch--even two

of those long-legged
seeking grasses,

the ones always standing alone,

or still others grouped quietly

in small whispering communities,

until just now,

when I held them for a moment

in my camera-eye,

and they seemed to see me,

nodding in unison,

perhaps in agreement,

when, blown to left

by some sudden

colder gust

and, as if closing

to possibility,
went back to their own,

gently let me go.

Kay Weeks on 1.12.12

Crows Talking...or Not... (Sonnet)

2012-01-10T06:55:00.003-05:00

Welcome to the universe of “small,”

where black and tortured moods creep in, prevail:

We tend to talk too much, or not at all,

taut-stretched on verbal racks, and hard as nails.

I’m feeling gusts that blow the truth around,

now venturing one eye into that cave

(so desolate the light and oozing brown),

I recognize myself, but cannot save

Some meaning of this day to justify

more conversations ending in a draw.

Pointing east and west and not to fly:

Convoluted love a rasping “Caw!”

And finally, alone.

Silent back to back on shaky bough,

we want to say, to ask, but don’t know how.

Kay Weeks

1.9.2012

Poem, photos: KW

Resolutions, Martyrs & Purification

2011-12-31T02:31:00.002-05:00

I swear it’s easier to give in than fight,

this petty pathos
of a night,

This sifting of shapes

to re-define the whole.

In a year, repetition becomes rule,

hordes of splintered branches crowd-out

an ordered hemisphere—isn’t pruning a sort of

evening of scores, a trimming of the bush

to suit yourself? What luck to be discerning in the smear!

You dissolve options in the strongest light,

cast out malingering memories

to save the best, the few that endure

without actually having to hold,

spindle, mutilate, or fold.

And isn’t this the truth? This has happened before?

You have snuffled through revised

billets doux never sent to imaginary lovers;

you have tortured yourself, remembering faces

on photos of now unknown, half-grown, anonymous

children of missing friends. You have donned

paper-clips doing grand, misshapen arabesques,

surrounded them with stiffening rubber-bands

lazing unused in backs of seemingly lengthened drawers.

A sullen jewelry—a cut-and-paste art,

and yet it re-occurs. You abate the end

with these weary dress-ups,

wear mediocre bangles for a small afternoon,

you dance to dime-store recollections

that momentarily warm cold feet.

And here the ceremony takes a reckless turn.

You commit these last receipts to your hand-built pyre,

days and eves like paper butterflies,

wither like hollow-cheeked apple cobs.

You curse. You wittingly close doors and twist knobs.

You watch, glued to the fire.

But unlike the nonflammable weeks of lost thought,

the little accoutrements burn. Dreams char up a storm.

You view a stove as another carbon-coated orifice of time.

Your hot mouth is an incinerator,

winter winds flout your flue,

stifling arrangements with soot,

stirring remnants of things

you wanted to postpone, sloughing for another year—

a few lingering words,

sweet vowels born of nobility and assigned to air,

something real that floated over

to touch you once with care,

innumerable golden rings.

The fire’s bright reminds you of a dark fact:

You are a compendium of must,

an accumulation that dwindles ‘til it’s done.

And wish for wish, ash for ash

you swear you don’t

or won’t allow yourself

to miss a single one.

Kay Weeks

c. 1972, Whidbey Island

Moon-Sister (Poem)

2011-12-27T06:30:00.004-05:00

Moon rising, Rehoboth Beach, DE.

Moon-Sister

My days take their cue

from the moon’s change:

Looking up, then out,

the sea pulls back

a hair’s breadth, then

withdraws to leave dry sand.

Moon wobble, Ellicott City, MD.

But while tide-beds

revive from playing dead,

I don’t come back alive;

You know—the doubt.

O my dear one!

I see in your shrink and grow

my own mutable self,

my fickle ebb and flow.

Perhaps at hand now,

something beyond you,

my body and mind spiraling

in the same spin

that holds things together.

Moon descending...light through trees.

Far beneath the skin,

my sad-blue colors change;

I feel an evenness to events,

only a faint wavering of purpose.

Undertow is unknown.

All is exposed to the hard bite of life.

Moon-sister, on high only in the mind,

I am at peace in my green dance.

Kay Weeks, c. 1972, Revised, 9.09, and 12.27.11

Christmas Stamps (Sonnet)

2011-12-11T06:38:00.000-05:00

How easily this year has slipped away!
Those longing hopes I placed on upper shelves
now rising up to challenge me with "Why?"
The Christmas stamps parade like little elves.

Is love a mere abstraction, just a word?
Elusive as those vapors we call clouds?
Will someone pin it down, lest I be bored
by verbal musings worn like thread-bare shrouds?

Back to joining names with stamps and such
to summon peace and joy atop the cards.
But missing is that quintessential touch,
like summer skin inviting needy bards.

My tongue in moistened action seals each one;
and love once mine has spoken and is done.

Kay Weeks 12.16.10 and again now on 12.11.11

When Perfect is Enough (Sonnet)

2011-12-08T08:36:00.006-05:00

For Leslie and Margaret

With cats asleep, the sun’s awake in dreams;

I decorated twice, then shook my head,

removing off-chance reds and plastic greens--

then switched to Nature’s browns; I changed my bed.

The laundry calls, re-cycles claim my time;

And dust—in clumps—goes skittering in the wind.

Our rain is gone, no snow, I think that I’m

full ready to divest, re-claim my skin.

Where do we go in ‘mindful flights,’ I muse?

I’ve traveled here and there, then head for home.

What’s the shadowed self and where’s the real

when stripped to fear like meat stripped from the bone?

If nothing’s wrong with now, with cats, with love,

why can’t I grasp that perfect is enough?

Kay Weeks

12/8/11

If winter is just a mood…

2011-12-07T04:56:00.006-05:00

Art by Margaret Scott.

If winter is just a mood

I can almost feel

this dried-up half-life

erupting from the ground...

If winter is just a time

between times,

there must be something

I've misunderstood.

If winter is more or less

than gloom,

one bird hunting food

without a sound,

How does it explain

this blue-green summer

we profess,

caught snowbound in a room?

Kay Weeks

c. 1972

______________________

How do we stand vis-à-vis the snow, the rain, a sunny or cloudy day is--in my view--the sum total of how we feel, first, about ourselves; about current ambient Other; and a lazy addition and/or subtraction of the two, in the context of what is going on in the world...planetary energy...I don't know. Do you?

In this poem, of course, I am relating the weather to a warm relationship that has suddenly gone cold in a room, conversationally and on a deeper level. What's left when you can't talk? The silence of alone. It is ultimately enough. I look at clouds.

They look like Angel fish. 2008.

The Ubiquitous Red Holiday Bow!

2011-12-05T14:45:00.000-05:00

The Ubiquitous Bow

Everywhere now in the RED season—

I mean, do we need a reason

To tie it, meet it, greet it, date it?

Date, Oh... Well, I don’t…ya’ know...but let's go!

The bow. Ribbon, plastic, EVERYWHERE the

Bow. Red bow...Touch your toe. Take a deep breath!

Do you have a bow? Will you bow for it?

How about a beau? A friend has one, I know. I’m all for that! Jack Spratt ate no fat…I'm eating chicken soup.

Organic veggies...diversion...

Bo Bo, Let's GO!

Bo Derek, Bow tie, Bojangles, Bodiddly,

Get out the fiddle and let’s play, “Riu Riu Chiu”

And then say, there’s Botox, Bo, Bo, Little Bo Peep,

Liz Bobo,

I had a beau, but I was fit to be tied

All the time, so no more, no mas, no more or less.

No mess...

Let's see now…Everywhere the RED bows. Bo, Bo, Beau…

It's agreed upon, kind of an ethic, it says "Merry...Holiday..."

Buy me, try me, Let's have a drink me. But think about it...

It seems so simple, but kind of frantic, Everyone

with the same bow...so...what?

I ran out of rhymes, but took a break. For heaven's sake,

I'm back now. Cut me some slack.

Look at all these bows. Oops...Typed blows…blow it out,

Blow your nose, bow out, bow down, tie me up

With a red ribbon, and let me go!

ONLY 20 more shopping days until, you know,

Camilla has doubts...

Camilla says NO!

Christmas!

Clouds, birds, self...Rehoboth (Late Fall)

2011-11-30T02:29:00.009-05:00

Early morning clouds.

Dolle's sign..birds, waiting.

East to Sea (Sonnet)

I'm driving east to sea to look at clouds;
to watch the gulls and read, but mostly me
engaging with myself--not much aloud;
to walk the wind-whipped sand and simply be.

It's hard to stay "in moment," I admit,
when packs of birds, like voices, congregate.
I have to lower gaze and think a bit
about my time in life, about my fate.

When suddenly--I see explosive wings,

first huddled on some sign, now take to air!

I'm wondering if love is just a thing

that beats with frantic pace, then dies somewhere.

I bought some glasses, two for price of one
to shield my eyes from brightness of the sun.

11.27.11 Rehoboth Beach, Delaware

Robin Hood Cafe (breakfast)

What's a writer...without a pen?

Not sure --but it happens

over and over again.

Here, on this cloudy day

   at Rehoboth Beach,

I found one in my purse--a pen--

yet words are strangely

not within my reach.

Perhaps a sign to stop

 trying to own 

 this scene with words, 

but simply let it flow?

So now, with that in mind,

I'll walk down to the shore again,

pull my camera out

of its over-the-shoulder shell,

then perhaps if I don't dwell on it,

I'll just let that gull up there

become my magic eye.

Lone gull...diagonal brown grass.

Kay Weeks
November 27 & 28, 2011

Consider this question...

2011-11-26T03:02:00.004-05:00

Now, I am wondering: Do we all try to sum people up fairly quickly, in order to save time? We make mistakes, sure, but there are certain categories of behavior, don't you find? Here are a few: Controlling, Preachy, Liberal, Conservative, Polite, Rude, Aware, Twinky, Gracious, Uncaring, on and on...This might be called labeling or name calling, but usually we don't make a sound...just file it away to help us the next time we meet the person. Or avoid...

Gossiping birds in tree.

It isn't fair, but how much time do we have? Yesterday in a nearby market, I was trying to ascertain which off-the-peg reading glasses were on sale...an otherwise pleasant staff person walked over to me while I was stymied about a price that had appeared during self-checkout and said: "You know, that number on the glasses is the strength, not the price." I responded softly, "Yes, I know that, and what kind of idiots shop here for you to have to ask me that?" We both laughed. A third staff person actually figured out which were on sale and which were not. Of course, I could have done that...Oh well...Unaware!

This Sestina includes a number of "categorizes of behavior," e.g. short-cuts to decision.making about short or long-term (or no) relationships. It is not scientific, of course, but I have read many theories and am not totally sure of those, either.

Dismissives, Positives, Negatives, Needies, Judgmentals, Literals, & Snides

JUST GIVE ME ONE SENTENCE! (Sestina)

Of late, I realize I am able to categorize

People from just one sentence—

Such as, “I’ll call you,” rarely does, Dismissive,

Then the Positives, Negatives, Needies,

And Oh, those Judgmentals,

The Literals, Snides, on and on, but never mind.

Mostly, these labels are age-oriented, never mind,

And I know it’s so unfeeling to categorize

People, but I need to pick and choose, Judgmental,

Who can make the cut, in a sentence,

And I shut the door on those sucky Needies,

Becoming tough and, in a word, dismissive.

Now, if you don’t listen to me, that’s dismissive

In a way and I get angry, but never mind,

Because I’m over my case of the needies,

So why the hell aren’t you? So, I just categorize

From an expression, one tell-tale sentence

That pushes ME toward negative and judgmental.

She’s this; he’s that, on and on, so judgmental,

But then using Jesus as a soft cover, so dismissive!

How can we get at our humanity in one sentence?

We could discuss this topic to death, but never mind,

Because attitudes and words create categories

And I’m asking now--Are you still one of the Needies?

I’ve come to know that false positives are Needies,

Spewing out verbal hugs, underneath, so judgmental,

Really, because when push comes to shove, they categorize

Others as inferior, need to cheer them up, so dismissive,

And I could go on, and HAVE, but never mind—

You get my point here, in one long sentence!

Are we confined to stereotypes, like a jail sentence?

God, so predictable, I can’t stand it, those Needies

Saying “like, like, like” asking for love, but never mind,

I do it too, and post my soft cats, who are never judgmental,

So why didn’t you call me when you said, so dismissive,

Because it makes me sad and self-destructive; then I categorize!

Only three sentences left, but never mind,

I don’t want to be categorized as one of the Needies

Or Judgmentals. Why are you always so dismissive?

Three crows, deciding who you are.

Kay Weeks

11.9.11 and re-posted in a new guise on 11.26.11

The Clerk - a poem for Black Friday

2011-11-25T05:11:00.007-05:00

The Clerk

Crouching on cardboard ledgers

I watch as my inky numbers

Hurry crawl stumble…then

Quick-before-they-fall, stand up

Salute and mumble into this:

The simple YES & NO

RICH & POOR, GREAT SUCCESS or NOT

Today RED and Tomorrow BLACK.

Easy, but is it all? Is there anything

Left to lack, off the record,

Not in a ready realm?

At home, my private answers
run far from clear.

Daily, I compute to
marginal shades of grey.

At last check, my largest accounts still lay

Un-won, moldering in foreign banks.

Trust seems a sorry venture.

What’s good for me is mutually safe,
mutually mine.

The surest numeral I know is

ME, MYSELF, ONE, ALONE.

Post:

AS OF THIS DATE
I WILL NO LONGER

BE RESPONSIBLE

FOR ANY DEBTS
OTHER THAN MY OWN.

Kay Weeks c. 1970

Thanksgiving: Collage $ Sonnet

2011-11-24T06:40:00.002-05:00

Thanksgiving collage...

Microwaving Time

 Whenever you get hungry, think of how

 Tme’s a’wasting! Hear the microwave?          

 Its little jingle tells us what we know,

 Its “beep-beep” signals progress to the grave.

The older way of cooking calms our breath,  

And serves to keep our panic more in line.

No keyed-in seconds, “ding-dings” for our death,    

Our hearts slow down and seem to stretch the time.

We choose our speed of going, don’t you think?

By moving fast, we try to get in more.

Like squeezing life to yield the kitchen sink,  

We mike it, watch it whirl, stomp the floor.

Fellow mortals, do you get my drift?

We feed our fear, and never mind the rift.   

This was my first sonnet, written about 2006.

Kay Weeks
Posted Thanksgiving 2011

Problems of Membership (for Denny Weeks)

2011-11-23T10:59:00.001-05:00

On the lawn...

Problems of Membership

Informed as we were

Of your departure,

We tried to stand our ground.

We held back, awake.

But you left us without words,

In need of a parallel test,

Some soundless interval between friends.

You put us to sleep.

We dreamed you as part of a pattern

Of diminishing form,

The skin stretched so thin

It became invisible

And revealed ourselves.

What more could we do?
We woke, surviving the rest.

We woke, cloaked in our bearable selves.

We stood in a vertical vote—

Sorrow for us,

The short-end of pity for you.

What more could we do?

Simply you were no longer

In the grand union of sufferers.

Conclude, conclude: Wish us well.

In this wide and continuing

Fraternity of horrors,

We certainly could have used you.

Barefoot: Glenwood Community Center

By Kay Weeks, given to Bill Barnett at

the Dennis C. Weeks, CDR, US NAVY,

commemoration meeting in Riverside, California, 1975.

Denny and I had two children,

Alison Weeks and David Weeks.

The Party (alone with all these people...)

2011-11-20T09:44:00.000-05:00


Crows talking...

The Party

Alone with all these people talking,

I’m almost one with the room.

Maybe I am the room!

Have you seen me anywhere else tonight?

Now I’m the paisley couch.

Anonymous legs try to tickle me with dull jokes.

Or my face is the Oriental rug.

I can hear my own wool lips chattering

like so many Chinese women.

My table top needs polishing.

My lap’s ashtray is full.

My floral drapes are heaving for air.

Help! I watch that artificial fern,

Snake out under my bathroom door.

Wait fern, not yet!

Our guests are searching

for something to remember.

Don’t crowd them out!

They need fresh images to carry home!

If you don’t stop, you’ll hide them

from one another.

I give up; you might as well go head--

I guess they won’t know the difference.

I am the room, the same room,

but lost in a web of plastic vines,

alone with all these people talking

in a tangle of leaves and words—

this reaching out and getting nothing.

Kay D. Weeks

c. 1970

Mary Randlett (Spider, Wall of Art), now 87

2011-11-17T11:57:00.006-05:00


With Mary Randlett, an iconic NW nature photographer.

I just returned from a journey of the heart, voyage du cœur, and when we put it into another language, it doesn't hurt so much. Maybe...But opening up, having feelings about old friends, mentors when we are actually with them--seeing firsthand the passage of time and experience--is a bit frightening partly because it reveals our own journey even as we are sharing "their moment."

It cannot be described as fun, although Mary and I laughed a lot in the car as she drove me to Ashford, then Whidbey Island, WA, to visit Trudy Sundberg, a woman I had known and admired in my late 20s as a Navy wife before I had a 30-year job with the National Park Service, then retired in 2005. We never spoke again for over 30 years. Then, recently, we connected by e-mail. Photo of Trudy Sundberg with the blogger at the end of this article.

Back to Olympia, WA. When I stayed with Mary Randlett for four nights and slept on a couch in the living room, I viewed a wall of art (mostly paintings) given to her over the years...I had my own bathroom. It included a black spider. She would have nixed it, having more important things to do, perhaps. She said, "it won't last; it can't get out." Well, it spun a thread and the next morning, was hanging by it. Later, got out; then, went back in. I took it out the next day and gave it a new room in her place. She'll never know and the spider moved on. Is this a lesson? Not sure...

Here is a sonnet I wrote for Mary and read it to her. She said, "amazing," but wasn't really listening except to the last two lines. Then, she forgot it. That's OK. Sharing it anyway. The clothespins are used to dry her photos.

One wall of art in Mary's living room.

Mary dry mounting a photo.

Mary's Wall of Art, Spider, Creativity

Up and drinking coffee--without fat;

her spider spun a thread, now hanging there.

I'm pacing, looking thinking this and that--

and seeing Mary's beauty everywhere.

How we all survive is news to me!

I thought that spider gave up, crisp and dead,

its blackness dulled by night. But now I see

he's hanging; found his peace; conveys no dread.

Creative minds envelop space and time--

Reach out; embrace; devour; try to keep

that perfect moment like a perfect rhyme,

then feel it slip away, return in sleep.

She's not awake, but soon she'll turn her eye

to clouds and earth, to mountains in the sky.

Sonnet: Kay Weeks for Mary Randlett 11.12.11

Link below: Some of Mary Randlett's incredible photographs...high quality...black and white
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/photogalleries/2003976922/8.html

Kay with Trudy Sundberg on Whidbey Island. Trudy
just published a book and is still absolutely amazing. Mary
and I had lunch with her and talked energetically, then
back to Olympia. About seven hours on the road
with two ferry rides. In the rain...
11.13

Poem, with Margaret Scott's Art

2011-11-09T06:23:00.004-05:00

"Hello" "Hello" "Hello"

Fine, thank you. And you? Does anyone ever phone

or write or otherwise communicate

From a position of health? When I have called you and you,

and there is a note of expectation

On the other end as if you are waiting for the bad news

or bad mood and I say no it is not so

I am just calling to say Hello…I lie; you know it.

Why do I have to lie? Why can’t I tell you?

Yes, I am desperate, yes I am lonely, and yes I need you,

want to hear your voice, want to feel

I am still alive because you respond and tell me so.

Why do we lie to each other and tell our good news

And lie our great successes when what we really want

to do is cry, cry for our own losses

And each others'; cry for moments unrevealed,

cry for our own lives slipping away from us,

That knowledge of the impermanence of our own voices

saying Hello. How are You? I’m Fine.

Don’t ever believe it. The phone ringing is a sign of crisis.

No one in his right mind was ever fine.

The hands and voices that reach out to be touched,

the minds stretching out this very moment

To be caressed know what I say is true,

yet they cannot admit it. We must be strong,

We must be tough, we must be optimistic,

we must deny our sicknesses, we must deny our needs,

We must deny our pains. Some people I love

are freezing into awkward poses of health.

They are afraid to admit what they know. They need,

they need, but they don’t know how to say.

And yes, I do it too, Hello. Fine, Thank You.

And You? And You? And You?

We are dying, and we don’t know what to say.

But if you ever asked me if I thought or said or wrote this,

I would say no, I would say Hello.

Poem: Kay Weeks

Drawing: Margaret Scott

Posted on 11.9.11

We change with the seasons...

2011-11-08T05:59:00.004-05:00

This is a brief introduction to my newly re-configured and re-titled blog, "how we feel." Not just how we feel about our cats--and each other--but more about how we are feeling about ourselves in re/ to all. Not sure. Many of the older cat features remain. There is a new masthead, suggesting a WE rather than a cat, but our cats have feelings, for sure. Connections...

I realized by going through "older posts" that this blog, as opposed to the blog about Ellicott City Historic District, has always included poetry, drawings, and paintings. So why did I think re-titling it was such a departure? We go back to self, always, in my view, looking for some new level of authenticity--the real self. How do we feel?

Serendipity. In a similar vein, while searching my poetry docs. looking for a Thanksgiving poem, I inadvertently stumbled upon this sonnet, so will follow the universe, the "whatever," and post it here.

The change--my invitation is this: If you write, draw, or paint and would like to share some of your art, or a poem--from time to time--please send it to me. Very informal, very mellow. Not my personality, alas, the mellow, but I wish it were. Winter will soon be upon us. I, for one, will enjoy the enhanced views through skeletal branches, in nearby canyons. But, below, is that burst of Spring that will follow.

Surprise Me, Please! (Sonnet)

We can’t give any more than what we know,
Yet I keep asking people to surprise
With something new, some juicy blow by blow
To jog my brain, propel me out of lies.

Slack-jawed-to-boring melodies I’ve heard
Not once, but never-ending in my mind;
So deadly are these tunes and every word,
I’m comatose by noon, become unkind.

What do you know, and how much can you give?
Is pain what closes doors and takes the key?
My meager brain fills up, runs out, a sieve
That catches meaning, seeps into the sea.

Tell me what you know and I likewise
Will try to tell you--let me close my eyes.

sonnet from 6.1.11

Posted, & Feeling it on 11.8.11

The Poetry of Stretching & Yawning

2011-07-05T11:09:00.014-04:00

SUMMERTIME

Early in the day it was fairly cool, but later, shot up to 90!
(see Weather Channel screen, July 4, 2011)

Queen Camilla has given me permission
to share a Jacuzzi story with poses.

Jacuzzi stretched out with one eye open.
Below: The big YAWN! Then she got up...

On the 4th of July, Jacuzzi was sprawled out on the Mistress Bed and got into her "on the back at full stretch" position. Naturally, I ran downstairs to get the camera, then
charged back up, hoping she was still in a photographable mode. She was. SO sweet!

Not too much talk today--too hot. The cats seem to be getting along better now, but then I work hard to be sure each one is psychologically satisfied...they are very different. Well, we ALL are, yet connected at the same time. And so it goes... In the end, though, Camilla is Queen.

Blog Content/Photos:
Kay Weeks
July 5, 2011

Summertime...and the livin'...

2011-06-11T19:10:00.009-04:00

...not lyrics easy, but sure better than two weeks ago! Camilla has had a room mate now for about a month…not sure…but with some stepped changes, they seem to have reached “détente.” I feed them simultaneously, but Camilla is on a table; Jacuzzi is on the floor. They keep an eye on each other, then dine without any issues.

Of course, it may be the heat that has helped to quench their hisses (Camilla still does it…a continuous boundary thing; it seemed softer today, more like a reminder). Even with the air conditioning on, they were together in my room in a state of grace:

Camilla up a little higher on the chest of drawers and Jacuzzi, amazing, on my bed, looking at Camilla. It might have been affection. You think? OK, I don't either...

Camilla gets this pouty look…it may just be her Teddy-Bear face and ears--the typical British Short Hair demeanor. So, I re-assure her that SHE is Queen and will sleep in my bed tonight, while Jacuzzi will be sent to the scullery…I mean, just off the bed. We have to keep our priorities straight here.

Then, this was such an exciting development in their relationship. Jacuzzi was on the bed with me while I was watching the Belmont Stakes; Camilla actually turned her back. Interpretation: Trust...or who cares?

Camilla, relaxed in the presence of Jacuzzi. Below: Jacuzzi, ditto relaxed.

Enough! The photos say it all…Bottom line--they were at peace, and we were together. For a moment, anyway, it felt like FAMILY! Good enough for me!

Blog content/photos: Kay Weeks
June 11, 2011

MISTY finds an adoptive home!

2011-05-25T13:13:00.003-04:00

Camilla--asleep and totally clueless about all of this--has yielded her space because she knows how happy
I am right now;
how exhausted Jacuzzi and Misty are; and how, from my point of view as feline "caretaker," that when you let go of a emotional (wanting to control) need, you open the door to a creative answer. At least, that is what has happened to me, over and over again.

Case in point: Cats Misty and Jacuzzi lived with me for a number of years, then with my son. He recently felt the need to simplify because he is taking care of his toddler daughter and it is over-the-top demanding.

Jacuzzi came to my place in Ellicott City, which immediately changed the peaceful relationship I had with Camilla. Better now; they are in a sleep cycle and I should be there too, but time is of the essence. I have things to do later on this evening.

Misty went into boarding at Lewis Animal Hospital on Route 108 in Columbia, MD--an excellent place and one I have always used over the years with cats and dogs alike. Then, after vaccinations to make her eligible for boarding, I left Misty at Lewis until today, May 12, 2011, and returned to Camilla and Jacuzzi at home to begin the task of finding Misty an adoptive home--through channels. Almost immediatelyl, I discovered that the no-kill refuges (aka shelters) do not want senior animals...anything over five years is usually unadoptable. So, that shut the door and any hope for finding Misty a new place. One fleeting idea was to fly her to the Pacific NW to be with family or a friend--something I held lightly in my heart--and it's a good thing.

Misty is very sensitive and poetic...creative...which is what a lovely young woman named, Trinidad F., must have seen in her for the past week, taking care of her. Trinidad is staff at Lewis Animal Hospital.

When I went to Lewis with Jacuzzi for her shots, this morning, Trinidad was up by the counter. She spoke so softly that I had to keep asking, "I'm sorry...could you say that again?" Or, "Just one more time, please." She said, "I want to take Misty." I was so stunned, I couldn't speak for a moment (unusual for me). I smiled to the clouds, then hugged her.

While Jacuzzi was being vaccinated, Trinidad and I went back into the cages once, and I saw that Misty was OK...then, after the final checkout and after I signed a form saying that Misty would belong to Trinidad from this day forward, the two of us back into the boarding area again. I photographed Trinidad holding Misty.Then, Trinidad photographed me holding my sweet Misty for the last time...

Moving forward. My thanks to all the people who sent me thoughts, best wishes, inquiries...and to those who did not respond to me in my semi-crazed and seeking state. It all worked, like the universe seems to work when you just give IT room--at least in this instance. If I had gone to Rehoboth, this would not have happened. If I had taken Misty to Howard County Animal Control, it would surely not have happened. It was all crazy and totally perfect! And I am grateful beyond words.

Trinidad and Misty

Lewis Animal Hospital - 410-730-6660 - 10665 Route 108, Columbia, MD 21044

Kay Weeks blog/photos 5.12.11

Looking at birds again: New Perch!

2011-03-30T08:05:00.009-04:00

It's Spring again, almost! Oh, that much loved, familiar shape from the back--Camilla looking out a window at the birds and squirrels! It took some time to find just the right height and width "perch" for her...but yesterday, I eyeballed a kitchen stool in a nearby store; asked someone for a measuring tape; and thought my cat friend might possibly take to it, even though it is new, and in a new place! A couple cat treats helped. Then, I opened the window a crack to let the sounds (and cold air in). She was hooked.

The moment she saw a bird, her long tail, hanging over the stool top, started swaying back and forth. It made me laugh. Dear Camilla! Kay Weeks 3.30.2011

Yes to Yellow, Camilla says!

2011-03-16T11:48:00.016-04:00

In the moment? But something so exciting happened here this morning, even though it is still rainy and gray. I literally woke up and saw flowers blooming in the yard--daffodils and crocuses. Surprise! Camilla already knew, I think, but my senses were still lost somewhere in Mexico...not somewhere--Mar de Jade.

So, following her lead, I bought a bag of lemons...and reveled in the yellow!

...put some bright red tomatoes

in a blue bowl...

...and a few coral tulips in a turquoise tea pot...

and began, simply, to smile again here in this great town.

Feel the joy!

Camilla feels lighter--springier--after my trip, as Kate St. John took good care of her, not handing out too many treats.

She (Camilla, that is) jumps up on a table in the kitchen, begging, and I have to remind her that the Mother Bird does not feed the babies every time and to chill out.

Then I usually give her one anyway...

Kay Weeks
Historic Ellicott City, MD
3.16.11

...and into a drawer...

2011-02-16T06:09:00.007-05:00

Now that pink and red Valentine's Day is over, let's get on with it: Spring with yellow and green with a broader definition of love than a card or candy heart. Camilla.

Yesterday, when I had pulled a drawer out, she climbed into it. Naturally, I saw a photo opportunity so put the scarf around her. She is where I am and it always delights me--except when she tries to lie on the keyboard and makes a series of dashes - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The Carnations and the green stuff were deemed "fillers" for some larger bouquet, so were very reasonable. Camilla wants to eat the green.

That's it! Onward...just the sound of

the wind and birds wanting to end

winter. Who knows, from this bright

ending, what has already begun?

Kay Weeks

2.16.11

I'll Never Fall in Love Again...

2011-02-07T05:41:00.027-05:00

By Burt Bacharach and Hal David

What do you get when you fall in love?
A guy with a pin to burst your bubble
That's what you get for all your trouble
I'll never fall in love again
I'll never fall in love again

What do you get when you kiss a girl
You get enough germs to catch pneumonia
After you do, she'll never phone you
I'll never fall in love again
I'll never fall in love again

Don't tell me what it's all about
'Cause I've been there and I'm glad I'm out
Out of those chains those chains that bind you
That is why I'm here to remind you

What do you get when you give your heart
You get it all broken up and battered
That's what you get, a heart that's shattered
I'll never fall in love again
I'll never fall in love again

Out of those chains those chains that bind you
That is why I'm here to remind you

What do you get when you fall in love?
You only get lies and pain and sorrow
So for at least until tomorrow

I'll never fall in love again I'll never fall in love again
I'll never fall in love again

I'll never fall in love again!

In Real Time. Sung by the amazing jazz stylist, Denee Barr, these wonderful lyrics by Hal David reveal the heart of a person who has just suffered from losing what were likely his or her own exaggerated expectations for a romance, for love. Of course, the narrator will come back to love again because it is a need for most people. You rock, Denee!

Now…the meaning of the lyrics, as I interpret them, is ironic…and dishonest…and thus apply to so many of us who live in a made-up romantic land and want to stay there, unscathed...at least for awhile, safe.

On the other hand—with Camilla, my heart is always open because hers is. You can see from these photos that she is in a constant state of grace, whatever that means. She is overtly and abstractly beautiful. Her hopeful expression may just mean she wants me to feed her.

Or hold her. I do both. I interpret this delicate interplay as love. We are--what is that term? “Together.”

Photos, top to bottom: "I'd know those pointed ears anywhere"; "Abstractly Camilla"; "Curved Cat on Jute Rug"; "Handing Camilla My Heart"; and "Blue Camilla Profile."

Thanks again to Denee Barr for joining me in this Valentine's Day, 2011, post.
hocoblog@@@
2.7.11

Update: The Owl and the Pussycat

2011-02-02T04:23:00.004-05:00

The Owl and the Pussycat

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are."
Pussy said to the Owl "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing.
O let us be married, too long we have tarried;
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?"
Said the Piggy, "I will"
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand.
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Camilla was a reluctant participant in this photo shoot yesterday, February 1st. She was sitting on my red table in the living room together with a small pottery

owl when I thought of the poem by Edward Lear. That's it. Short and sweet for February 2nd, and the rains are eroding our snow--today could get up to 50 degrees, which will prompt a walk around Lake Centennial. Something outdoors!

Kay Weeks

Blog content/photos

January--Camilla is Everywhere!

2011-01-24T16:06:00.012-05:00

So, is Camilla settled? You bet!
Just take a look.

She can be found on just about every surface. No shy kitty, this one!

She picks soft, warm, cozy...sometimes.
It's the aesthetic, she purrs...

I like grays, soft shades, soothing sounds.

...but I also like structured...such as watching pages print on the wood computer table.

Short and sweet:
That's my girl.
Fits in anywhere I am!

Kay Weeks
1.24.11

Camilla Cures the January "Blues"

2011-01-17T08:40:00.004-05:00

Sometimes Camilla walks gingerly across this now "historic" chest of drawers, then jumps on my bed. She is where I am...for the most part...and

gracefully so. Her Grayness! Of all the wintry things, Camilla is "coziness."

Just now, she is sleeping on a nearby day bed in Hollywood Show Room, also where I have the computer.

But a moment ago, she was alert and clear-eyed for a photograph. And so the day goes with Camilla (when I am here). Thank you for your time with me--the days, the hours, the years; I am grateful.

Kay Weeks

1.17.11

Camilla in January

2011-01-08T11:50:00.006-05:00

-It's cold in my computer room, so (lucky you!), this blog will be short and sweet!

Camilla is best in winter, I think, when she finds a cozy spot and settles in. People have asked me whether I have "settled in," and I think to myself that phrase is more attuned to other animals circling three times, then creating a nest. Well, yes! Maybe appropriate for humans as well!

Yes, I am settled and then some. Cleaning, divesting again, constant circular energies. Like getting and spending, but more physical.

Above and right: Here she is on my bed, staring at me, those soulful eyes, "treat-wanting," strong, soulful. I give her one, of course.

Yesterday evening, I was down here in the cold computer room, and she insisted on jumping into my arms, so I held her like the friend she is. And swayed back and forth as if she were a baby. Truth to tell, she is not, nor am I. But we pretend, together, that we are invincible...and together, perhaps we can hold on to the magic for awhile.

Dear Camilla. My friend.

Kay Weeks

1.8.11

Christmas Past...Camilla Present

2010-12-26T05:56:00.008-05:00

Day After and who's counting?

The blog title. Not Present as in GIFT, you understand...but omnipresent, always here, never leaves or deceives, my sweet Camilla.

She has been pulled out of a familiar "other place" and plunked in the new one--a cool one, I might add! How quickly the transition where a cat's heart is involved. She knows I love her. It is thoroughly mutual. I don't even have to ask: I feed. We feed each other.

Now, she has conquered all the new spaces and is with me in a downstairs room, THE HOLLYWOOD SHOW ROOM, which is about to have a Netflix opening. To date, I have not watched a movie down here...because I prefer my cozy upstairs small t.v. in "my room." Reading Virginia Woolf's "A Room of Her Own," in which Woolf eloquently argued that

women of an earlier era required...money

and space...in order to create. Her writing is so breathtaking that I have to put it down to absorb it fully. And you? Camilla isn't saying...

SO....even before the 2011 time, I am moving forward. WE are moving forward. She is the WE for me. I know it is unusual for me to say this but "I LET HER DO ALL THE TALKING!"

Thanks, Camilla! I am grateful to you.

KDW

12.26.10

Camilla in the Carriage House...

2010-12-13T12:52:00.005-05:00

I remember my parents had a book with the title "Snoot if you Must." For some reason, Camilla in the carriage house brought back that title.

So...how does she like it here? She says it is nearly PURRFECT. Her Grayness is sleeping now...gets me up at all hours...

But we are (how do you say?)

"Happy!"

All for now. Enjoy the holidays!

Camilla breaks her vow of silence...

2010-12-01T03:35:00.010-05:00

Just lying there in her favorite chair in the new place, Camilla appears to be a regular cat, you know, sweet, cuddly, etc.

But as she has watched me move from "semi-orderly" to "reformed chaotic" and even "frenetic," quietly evaluating my daily kitchen choreography...

...she has broken her vow of feline silence...issuing barely audible, low semi-critical moans of disapproval followed by a kind of melodic pleading for acceptance of my less than perfect state. Oh, for Heaven's Sake, will you please stop it and sit down?!

Take the spice cabinet, where in former years, an ironing board was stored. When we moved in, she watched me fill it with spices (never alphabetized, but just all together), then as "the life lived" began to sink in,

start putting the aspirin and

ointments in with the cinnamon and nutmeg,

or here a roll of bandages next to the oregano--

and nasal spray coupled with garlic powder.

Yesterday, she watched calmly as I dumped about half a bottle of thyme into my morning coffee, thinking it was a nutmeg sprinkle.

Luckily for the reader, I will keep this short. The most gratifying moments have to do with trees and birds--and the deer feeding just outside my door! I took the advice of a friend and positioned the feeder as high as possible in a tree outside a window. When a bright red male Cardinal visited it--my spirits soared.

It made me feel settled, nested, as if the bird-friends from the other place knew I was here and even though I know that isn't true, it doesn't matter.

Now, on this first day of December, we are fully engaged in the new place, and it fits...our hearts. Camilla follows me around, silent, although wary of future outbreaks of craziness, as I pay bills, wander here and there looking for something, and put out a few Christmas decorations--such as this cloth Santa placed over an old bottle of absinthe, with tomatoes and a string of flowers from Ariella's baby shower in 2008. Weird Mom, but I still care for her and she feeds me!

We are at home again now, together as always...and at peace. My Camilla...

12/1/10

Cozy in a Box

2010-11-10T15:07:00.007-05:00

Camilla senses something is different...many things, actually. Every day her interior backdrop is diminished as I take boxes to the new place. Now, it looks much better than my current one. And so it goes. Then, she surprises me by cuddling up in a box and sleeping.

The other night, when I put a yoga blanket on the living room floor (since the rug is now gone), she chased a pencil around on it, skidding and diving, and I could tell she was having fun!

Thanks, Camilla, for adding your light touch to this November time. Always, Camilla...you make me smile. When I took the shades up the hill to my new digs, I needed some substitute cover...so pasted pages from a calendar and added one of my little paintings of Camilla. It works. One has to be practical amid the chaos, yes?

11.10.10

Electric Camilla...

2010-10-25T07:15:00.008-04:00

is vibrating in a new direction, it seems. Without knowing it, she is preparing herself for a quantum leap. More on that later. Just look at her photograph!

Of course, all that vibrating took a lot out of her, so she is curled up in my office just now.

No, she just woke up and told me to stop talking about her...

Packing positively now! OK, Boss.
You got it!

10.25.10

So glad she is back from Tuscany...

2010-10-18T05:56:00.004-04:00

Well, the "she" is writing this, but I think Camilla is feeling it. She is on a nearby bed right now, my gray imperative. Soon, we will move to a nearby place and she is ignorant of it...I am trying to keep it simple for her, as well as myself, so my "soul mate" will be able to digest the new spaces, but familiar beds and couch, and oh! all those benches we adore!

So, keeping this simple right now.

Kay & Camilla

10.18.10

Our Love is Here to Stay...

2010-09-23T07:28:00.014-04:00

George Gershwin wrote both the song & the lyrics. It was Lucille and Julian Davidson's song, and they lived up to it. I remember as a teen ager thinking the idea of my parents having a song was corny...I didn't get it, of course.

Now, I dedicate the same song, Our Love is Here to Stay, to my steady, stable soul mate and partner, Camilla. She and I are moving at some time in the near future--and it doesn't matter where. She will be with me in the new place and all places for always.

It's very clear
Our love is here to stay
Not for a year, but ever and a day

The radio And the telephone
And the movies that we know
May just be passing fancies and in time may go...

But oh my dear
Our love is here to stay
Together we're going a long long way

In time the Rockies may crumble
Gibraltar may tumble
They're only made of clay
But our love is here to stay.

Sung here by vocalist and artist Denee Barr who cites some of her musical influences, including Carole King, Leontyne Price, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, and Elton John. Denee continues: From pop to classical, soul, r&b, rock, and jazz, singing to me is about expressing our thoughts in a lyrical way for music has resonance. When I sing a nostalgic song I connect with older audiences and re-connect younger audiences with music that transcends time. I've been singing since I was a young child back in the 1970's growing up in Washington, DC. I sing for the joy of singing as a creative and spiritual outlet. Music still remains a great universal language no matter who or where you are.

How she responds to me...

2010-09-16T06:41:00.020-04:00

What would this chair be without Camilla? Probably less hairy, but then she is so beautiful in it--the dark and light patterns, the engaging positions. So I had to disturb her by taking photographs.

One eye open!

Oh, that creative agitation

...she was almost asleep here...

...then raised her head

when she first saw me

standing near the chair,

then squatting

with the camera to get a better angle...

...and started to get up, but changed her mind

with a kind of ho-hum indifference to my

repeated actions over time...

...sensing (no, knowing) that I would take a a bunch of photographs, pat her on the head and say something sweet, then leave.

Merciful quiet.

Now, once again, the crossed paws and composure

of a Buddhist philosopher

who has taken a vow of silence.

Me too, Camilla, starting now!

Another episode in the life of...soap opera cue now, cut to break.

I think Camilla and I know each other so well that it's all OK. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

9.16.10

A Reunion of Hearts in Ashland, Oregon

2010-09-12T06:48:00.007-04:00

Once again, sweet Camilla has agreed to let me post a photo of a brief "coming together" of friends and room-mates at the University of California many years ago. I wrote a Sestina for the occasion and read it to Lora and Dodie in a coffee shop in Ashland, Oregon.

Windows

Smear of gold, green and gray--fields, odd towns, Lora,
And I'm thinking I know your face like mine, but wonder
Mile by mile what you look like after all this time, Dodie,
And I sort of know, but mysteries thick as clouds
Tend to veil our mountain minds, yet when I hear you say, “Kaydi,”
Above the rail-chatter, I leap to “now” on this train across the years.

I can hardly believe it has been almost fifty years
Since we ate Jello in that Canyon Crest house, Lora,
And both of you calling me Kaydi
To the point that it made me wonder
Whether I lost my given name in those desert clouds
In Riverside studying art history and laughing with Dodie.

And you were the French-speaking biologist, Dodie,
Morphed into world traveler over the years,
Winging through time like darkening clouds
And perhaps writing the other world traveler, Lora,
But probably both absorbed in your lives, which makes me wonder
Why I sat in an office for 30 years, and no one called me Kaydi.

Money, and on the other hand, it seemed too soft a name, Kaydi,
That you both proffered on me, but mostly Dodie
At first, I recall, and it makes me ponder—no, wonder—
How it stuck over all these non-corporeal years
And that term sounds like Dr. Jean Boggs, Lora,
An old woman who disappeared in Quebec as if in clouds…

Further connecting all, I have since drafted a book about clouds
Which have been in my thoughts much more than “Kaydi,”
While also writing many poems and sharing them with you, Lora,
But not as much with the rarely-at-home-biologist, Dodie,
To whom so much is owed, conversations during the school years
Such as clarifying the Grand Canyon as erosion that had made me wonder…

Now, how to put all of this together, I wonder?
Such haze between times, far more than billowing clouds
Yet nothing is really shrouded or buried over the years
Because they softened my heart when they called me Kaydi,
And I called her not Dolores, but Dodie,
And not Lordie as once suggested, but her real name, Lora.

Soon, time chewing up the years and again the sound of Kaydi,
Feeling awe and wonder, with Shakespeare in the clouds,
Meeting in Ashland, Oregon, my dear friends, Dodie and Lora.

Kay Weeks, Revised 9.7.10 in Portland Oregon.
Next stop, Ashland, Oregon for the reunion and
two plays (Pride and Prejudice; Throne of Blood).

Thanks Camilla, all!

My Brown SPIDER (a sonnet)

2010-09-02T12:11:00.009-04:00

I'm counting legs against a neutral wall;

He hasn't moved now for an hour or more;

With body brown and long, he looks so tall;

I grip my pen; he holds his place most sure.

Is this a standoff? Will he win or lose?

I'd never kill before the sun is up!

Imagine him all dressed and wearing shoes;

He'd drink my coffee, savoring each sip!

Back to counting legs; it looks like seven.

Asymmetry in brown with poise and grace.

If I squash him, will I go to heaven?

Or would he rise to look me in the face?

I'll let him be and greet the sun in time:

For everything, I'm his and he is mine.

8.30.10 in Seattle

Kay Weeks

What to Wear (A Sonnet)

2010-08-29T02:48:00.015-04:00

All those outfits I discard at will
Trying to determine who I am.
When I get up I think I know, but still
My blouses, trousers fly like bread and jam!

Camilla wears her gray and always knows
Except when agitation hits her ears,

While I go flying off within the throes
Of some invented crisis or arrears.

Dear God, give me the strength to wear one thing,

And not pile all those clothes up on my bed;

And please, I add, the comfort that would bring

May make me see more green instead of red.

You need to know it’s not those alms I need.

It’s having grace and courage in the deed.

Kay Weeks

8.27.10

Camilla Brightens Up! Am I Next?

2010-08-27T07:14:00.020-04:00

When I fired up my Buddha this morning, I ignited a votive candle in a tall tea-cup as well, and, you know what? It wasn't great art, but moving things around changed my perspective, at least momentarily, about this forthcoming move from the Historic Ellicott City apartment I call home. THEN...I got a brief smile out of Camilla today as she went for the feather on a stick: I am watching her closely for cues. Where do we go? Do we really want a smaller 1840 apartment across the river and into the woods...to a place that is smaller and costs more?

I was sure, then not sure, then sure, now...negotiate or give in, or just go and let it go?

Just to say that apartment hunting is something Camilla has never done, and I dislike...especially on a time line when it is not mine. So, I am here and there and also neither here nor there, but at home in my heart, always with Camilla.

Camilla, I return to you again and again, and I know this too, will end, but not now. What did you say? Be myself...OK. Here goes!

Have funky fun,until it's done!
Life, you know what I mean!

Eyes ahead; head on straight. It's never too late to finish your race! Write a few poems, create some paintings, and self portraits, whatever you think it means, that's what it is. So, what is it?

Now, have a good day!
Kay on August 27, 2010

Moody...Move...Darker...Darkest

2010-08-24T04:05:00.014-04:00

Camilla doesn't know, but I do. I could cheerily write about how cool and delicious the air is this morning, on August 24th...breathable for the first time in awhile, still carying grass pollen and Ragweed on it, yet moving us into Fall. A few days ago, after my landlady announced simply "we need the apartment" I went into emotional shock, then dragged through most of the Kubler-Ross steps, and now accept her declaration with a handbag of changing emotions...sadness, humor, swirling new manic energy, all reminders of earlier moves when a young, married Navy wife, and the family was uprooted frequently by changes in duty station.

I, for one, became enured, numbed by the Navy moves and frequent losses of young pilots and repetitive memorial services...but this recent announcement that I would have to be out by December 1st (giving me over three months) completely blindsided me, and left me...angry. I am not quite out of it yet, and have written a couple new poems which are too brutally honest to post at this time. One is called "Votive." A few of my close friends have read it, as well as Melody Gough, instructor of an online poetry course I take over and over again in order to hone the craft. She was wowed, I think, by the ability to emote, something that becomes easier with age, in my view.

So, for propriety's sake, I will share a series of simple drawings turned into paintings, illustrating a change in mood. Beginning with a simple line-art drawing of Camilla, painting it cheerily (I was not cheery actually) and deciding she was riding on ocean waves; then trying to get the tonal values right, moving into darkness where I stay, but not without some color and the understanding that everything works out because one makes it work out.

First, in order to connect old feelings with the pervasive new ones, here is poem written many years ago, probably on Whidbey Island in Washington State:

Moves

There they go again,
My bright periodicals
Sprawling across the table,
Refusing to become organized:
Muscling in, the grayish fibers
Outnumber my own energies,
My own living pages.
I think they might even predict the future.
Well, let them!
Let them try to pack me up,
Take me away!
I’ll do more than acquiesce!
I’ll beg them to box me,
To whisk me away without pain,
I’ll beg them to bury me
Until I’m comfortably settled
In the damned new place,
My table solid on all fours,
My thoughts fanned out
For everyone to read.
I’ll beg them to organize me
Until I’m neat and numb and sane--
Until I love goodbyes,
Until I’ve forgotten everything
But my own name!

Kay D. Weeks
1971

LIGHT TO DARK -

Now...here is the recent Camilla drawing, turned painting...reflective of my moving into the dark, so to speak, but simultaneoulsy beginning to do the work necessary to get back into the light (maybe take a painting course?). Work that involves searching, researching, exploring, talking to many people, and then finally finding and settling upon some new place that suits us. Camilla is the reason I keep most of this to myself during the day while alone in the current apartment, so she won't feel my fears of being uprooted.

Camilla as ocean cat, riding the waves

attached to the side of my apartment

dryer in the kitchen.

Yesterday, as I worked through the several issues that framed the day...not just the move...I kept picking up a paint brush in the spare moments. The cat became darker and darker, even though I pulled out a tube of white, purchased upon recommendation of my friend, artist and teacher, Trudy Babchak! But I pulled out the black as well and ended up with this. I think I will stop. Camilla doesn't know OR care. The best advice on the impending move came from long-time friend, Leslie Lewart, who suggested that I "...sage the place, and let go." Yes, and thanks, Leslie.

August 24, 2010

Blog content/photos KW

Dog Days: Where she rests...

2010-08-05T06:51:00.011-04:00

Well, of course, she wants to be with me. Is that an "of course?" For food, for no reason at all. I am so touched. Right now, before the temperature today climbs to 97 degrees, she is lying on my desk, baking under the French Fry desk lamp. Now, the light is off and she dozes on. I must go to the store to get her some tasty food, but now, she is not asking, not complaining.

Who could ask for more in a soul mate?

Camilla also gravitates toward simple, such as this white coverlet. I think she knows her gray form is enhanced by light colors. Maybe not...

There are other sleeping spots as well, such as the kitchen table (yes, we share), under

a wooden bench, or in the hall on the bare wood floor. She knows all the cool spots, or rather, feels them. I go where she goes...when I can, for as long as I can. Her Grayness...

August 5, 2010

Red Eye in Montreal

2010-08-03T05:33:00.010-04:00

Summer. Downtown Montreal,
Sunny, 7:00 a.m… There are
art galleries, museums nearby,
but our guide has selected a
French pastry shop—and me
On South Beach!

My eye is red. Why?
Accept, let go.
Jazz Festival over. Let go.
A bit of Buddhism?

We will, in all certainty, be taken
to yet another church—cathedral,
basilica, chapel, and so on. Oratory.
I am weary of gilded horizontal saints.

Not my choice, you know.
This is a controlled tour, with
experts at the helm!

Yesterday, they let us shop in
a maze-like underground mall
that was amazingly created by lifting
a church up from its foundation,
and then setting it
gracefully back down again.

I could have gone in to witness
that engineering feat, at least,

where "God" and "Super Man"

collide--or should it be...reside?

Instead, I followed the herd
to that glitzy commercial below-realm,
wishing I had bread crumbs
to find my way back to light.

But, no matter!
I found other landmarks,
memorized the turns,
then went into a Dollarama store
and, for some reason,
felt sudden joy at the sheer
number of familiar plastic things.

I stood in line with my few "loonies,"
bought a plastic bottle of cold water
and still another hat – black,
of course—and the day was gone.

Back home, this morning when I put it on, with its cheap shiny glint, and minimalized visor,

I decided I look beautiful in it:
You become what you believe.

7.20.10

45 Minutes in Drummondville

2010-07-31T04:08:00.021-04:00

Here we
are
again,
stopped

at a bland strip mall
between sophisticated cities—
and, you know, there is
nothing I want to buy
with my few remaining “loonies.”

Now, I’d love more time in
Old Quebec, or watching those
billowing clouds pass over me.
But here I am in Drummondville.

I went to a Dollar Store
and actually found more than
I was looking for:

A Minnie Mouse bag for Ariella,
and 21 small plastic glasses
to fill with red wine
and hold up to the light—
to consecrate in some small way
the time we’ve spent together
on this cradle-rocking bus
before our day
darkens into night.

7.23.10
----------------------------------

45 Minutos en Drummondville

Aquí estamos de nuevo, parados
En un centro de compras insípido
Entre ciudades sofisticadas
Y, sabes, no hay nada
Que yo quiera comprar
Con los pocos “loonies”
Que me quedan.

Ahora, quisiera tener mas tiempo en
El Viejo Quebec, o contemplar
Las nubes caprichosas pasando sobre mí.
Pero, aquí estoy, en Drummondville.

Me fui al “Dollar Store”
Y efectivamente encontré más
De lo que yo esperaba:

Un bolsillito de “Minnie Mouse” para Ariella
Y 21 vasos pequeños de plástico
Para llenarlos de vino rojo
Y elevarlos hacia la luz
Para consagrar, en cierto modo
El tiempo que hemos compartido juntos
Arrullados, en este autocar

Antes que nuestro día
Muera en la noche.

Poem: Kay Weeks
Translated by Maria Festa and Aurora Harris

-----------------------------------------------------------

Quarante-cinq minutes a Drummondville

Nous voici encore, arrete, un mall
Entre 2 villes elegantes
Comme vous savez. Il n’y a rien
Que je veux acheter avec mes "loonies."

Maintenant, je voudrais plus de temps
a la vieille Quebec pour
regarder les nuages qui passent devant elevant moi.
Je suis allee au magasin de Dollar
Et j’ai trouve plus que je cherchais.

Un sac de Minnie pour
Ariella et 21 petits verres en
Plastiques pour remplir avec
Le vin rouge pour tenir a la
Lumiere et consecrer au temps
que nous avons passe’ ensemble.
Sur l’autobus que balance chaque
Jour avant que la nuit vienne.

Poem: Kay Weeks

Rachel Wentz, Eyre Tour Guide &
Translator

This poem was read, first in English,
then French, then Spanish
by three bus travelers
to the other travelers on the bus.
The wine, was not shared,
as planned, but the poem was.

Camilla has once again given her page to her feeder's poem about a recent bus tour
to Albany, NY, Montreal and Quebec, Canada. Thanks!

July 31, 2010

Camilla takes back her space...

2010-07-26T08:41:00.020-04:00

Ellicott City is looking beautiful at sunset in late July...just back from Quebec Province, Canada.

Here it is from MY perspective:

What's going on with that camera...

& all the flashes this morning?

I feel sad...and at a loss for words...

OK, enough birds and lake for me! My "main personal feeder" was gone for a week to Canada and is back now, yeah, but I have nagging doubts that she will go somewhere again...this morning she was photographing me ad nausem, until we went downstairs and I could relax again! She is so...whatever!

July 26, 2010

It's a Lazy Afternoon...

2010-07-11T03:39:00.008-04:00

...and the beetle bugs are zooming and the tulip trees are blooming and there's not another human in view. But we two!... Lazy Afternoon by Jerome Moross

Well, not precisely. On this cool, rainy day, the ducks were swimming in a circular pattern, while others configured in a school-child lines, as if following a teacher or a mother, seemed to be going somewhere important--or not. It didn't matter because this was a lazy, actually, morning and I was alone with the ducks.

The boats at rest, seem to be awating signs of life. I loved the shapes, so simple and clean.

The walk was brief on this day, but meaningful beyond longer walks because of the unexpected solitude and comfort in that state.

Camilla yields her time, is asleep...zzzzz....

July 16, 2010

HOT! Camilla says "Yes" to the Ducks!

2010-07-06T09:11:00.012-04:00

Morning, Lake Centennial on July 6, 2010.

Hot and steamy. Ducks amid lily pads.

A duck, preening,
with radiating concentric circles--
so beautiful
in isolation.

A lone fisherman, in silouhette.

Camilla says, "That's all for now. Feed me."

Kay Weeks
July 6, 2010

Camilla on the couch...

2010-07-04T05:05:00.003-04:00

...with a summer hat. The past few days have (mercifully) been cooler, but today and in the next week following

the 4th of July--today--the temperatures will be in the 90s and even hit 100 one day. I get up at 3:30 a.m. to enjoy the cool, and Camilla is always with me, either at rest or stalking me for more food.

Last night, I took this photo of her in the resting mode.

All for now.

July 4th, 2010

From the Camillian point of view...

2010-06-28T06:29:00.010-04:00

...or would it be Camilla-ian? Don't know; she doesn't care. From her point of view on the table or on the blue bench or under it, if you accept the idea of some over-riding, embracing universal force and call it something, label it and make it yours and form communities of beings who share similar feelings or beliefs (e.g. Earth Mother, god or God, and on and on in history) then you must must accept the slug as your fellow traveler through space and time. In her wordless way, through a nod or purr, she would call the fellow slug, simply beautiful. And you?

What Madame Camilla has quietly documented from her thoughtful perch, or looking out that back door in the spring and summer months: The slugs arrive first and are the last to leave, the gleaners, before the ants arrive...They get out of the way for others who might step on them or (what?) eat them. Look here at those wonderful feelers and that graceful slimy slithering movement! Do you accept this, or recoil from it? Actually, Camilla doesn't care. She just IS.

And you? Have a wonderful day!

Kay Weeks
content/photos
June 28, 2010

Summer must be...

2010-06-24T06:36:00.010-04:00

Summer

must be

mindless

time

of sequined glintings,

squinting mindlessness

narrowing in retreat

into a silent

meandering of sight;

marshaled into deep, multi-

colored encephalograms,

running headlong into night,

skimming the surface

unaware..

unti it purples into sleep.

Kay Weeks, c. 1970

Camilla looks in a fishtank...

2010-06-14T06:21:00.006-04:00

...and dreams of traveling to Egypt. At least I think that's what's going on in this collage, although a collage simply creates itself (at least mine) by snipping and pasting whatever is close by! In this instance, it was a travel brochure from The Smithsonian offering a tour that I can't afford. But the colors seemed to work. Actually, after watching the new version of Karate Kid featuring two incredible athletes, Jackie Chan and Jaden Smith (Will Smith's son), I think China is a more likely destination! But keep looking and thinking, Camilla. You help me "dream" my next move in the life adventure!

June 14, 2010

how we feel...

Bloomed (A Sonnet)

Goodwill Donation Pick Up (A Sestina)

Goodwill Donation Pick Up

I’ve stuffed, this day, into three tallish bags,

Small reminders of what comes and goes,

Outmoded sleeves, decaying styles, frayed events--

Huddled as one, they wait for pick up at my door.

It just goes to show the even flow of things:

I trim; and Goodwill leaves three more.

Can’t our days give us any more

Than this constant shedding of skin, tied in bags

And affirming the immutable ordering of things

When we divest “down” to others?—Is that how it goes

As the driver comes to our white, three-paneled wooden door

To pick up our cast-offs and we deem it a “good will event”?

What was the date of your last charitable event

And when you gave to others with less, did you feel more?

And when those Trick or Treaters come to your door

Do you give them candy and gum in little plastic bags?

For me, anyway, give and take is very much like comes and goes,

Like, you know, vis a vis, the immutable ordering of things.

Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Maybe tell me--do you think about these things

Or do they only arise at a fund-raising event?

Yes? Oh well, in a way that’s how it goes

But I had always hoped for more

Than love and such, stuffed in three tall bags

And set out for Goodwill—and shut my door!

And isn’t the mouth kind of like a door

Taking it all in, and then speaking of things

Both joyful and painful; I see side-by-side bags

Holding promises and dreams, those hoped-for events

Such as a series of peaceful days and loving things

But not ever getting them, and is that how it goes?

The Good Humor truck still comes and goes; Painting: Trudy Babchak.

Years ago, my brother, Scott, ran out the door

To see what frozen joy it held--and more!

Now, the Good Will truck links me to those better things

As time makes obsolete both clothes and past events,

Pushing all into three tall yellow bags.

What comes ultimately goes. Think of them as--you know—things.

You can choose a charity event or Goodwill truck at the door!

But don’t you want more out of life than three tall bags?

Kay Weeks on 2.5.12

Clock: web capture

Art: Trudy Babchak

The Dilettante's Lecture (POEM)

Gray January Morning

Crows Talking...or Not... (Sonnet)

Resolutions, Martyrs & Purification

Moon-Sister (Poem)

Christmas Stamps (Sonnet)

When Perfect is Enough (Sonnet)

If winter is just a mood…

The Ubiquitous Red Holiday Bow!

Clouds, birds, self...Rehoboth (Late Fall)

Consider this question...

The Clerk - a poem for Black Friday

Thanksgiving: Collage $ Sonnet

Problems of Membership (for Denny Weeks)

The Party (alone with all these people...)

Mary Randlett (Spider, Wall of Art), now 87

Poem, with Margaret Scott's Art

We change with the seasons...

The Poetry of Stretching & Yawning

Summertime...and the livin'...

MISTY finds an adoptive home!

Looking at birds again: New Perch!

Yes to Yellow, Camilla says!

...and into a drawer...

I'll Never Fall in Love Again...

Update: The Owl and the Pussycat

January--Camilla is Everywhere!

Camilla Cures the January "Blues"

Camilla in January

Christmas Past...Camilla Present

Camilla in the Carriage House...

Camilla breaks her vow of silence...

Cozy in a Box

The Good Humor truck still comes and goes;
Painting: Trudy Babchak.