AND NOW, GOODBYE

 

 Kitzee
2005 - 2022

Gone, just like that.
I had expected more - possibly a miracle. Yet, in my heart of hearts, I always knew that miracles don't exist. They languish in the comforting realms of our wishful dreams, but quickly vanish when we rudely awaken.

My sixteen-year-old cat Kitzee died late last night. In the breath of brutal winter, in the bleak midst of a dangerous time when my problems and worries have become tumultuous. In a time of anguish and isolation, when my withered soul desperately yearns for comfort and reassurance, she has left me alone.

Sixteen years is a long time. When I first got Kitzee she was a three-month-old kitten. I was reasonably young, healthy, and content. I still had optimism - which has long since abandoned me.

Kitzee and I endured a lot in sixteen years - the death of my parents, and subsequently many bad times and turbulent years. Through it all she was a faithful and loving companion, whose company always kept me going. 

She was more than just a cat, she was part of my existence.

In her advancing years I could sense that she was becoming tired. I desperately tried to ignore the inevitable fact of her eventual demise.
In sixteen years, I have turned into a weary, bitter, completely exhausted old man - existing in poverty, ill health, and squalor in rural Tennessee. My two cats were all I had left to keep me plodding forward.

Kitzee was in remarkably good health until about a week ago. Her gait became sluggish, her appetite waned, she seemed slightly confused. Her eyes became runny, nose stuffy, breathing labored. I hoped against hope that she might recover.

Yesterday she showed signs of improvement. She drank lots of water and was nibbling at food. The vaporizer that I put in the bedroom seemed to be helping. I cleaned her runny eyes and made her as comfortable as possible.

Late last night - when I was in bed with the two cats - something seemed to change. I could sense it. Kitzee had been sleeping near the foot of the bed. She suddenly got up, came over to me, and nestled on my chest. 

I instinctively knew what she was doing, but I was too cowardly to admit it.
She was saying goodbye.

I stroked her fur, scratched her head, kept reassuring her and saying how much I love her.

Then, suddenly, she leaped off the bed, went across the room, and laid under the computer desk. She made several disconcerting noises, like breaths of farewell. Then she was silent.

I called her. I kept calling for her to come back on the bed.

Her absolute silence told me everything that I didn't want to know.

                                     Jon

I took this photo of Bosco and Kitzee yesterday (Friday, Feb. 4). I truly thought Kitzee was feeling better.

UNDER THE LUNAR INFLUENCE

When I write I'm merely talking to myself, very often completely oblivious to the prospect of eavesdroppers. My words should probably best be ignored rather than absorbed. Private thoughts are not always easily interpreted or appreciated.

Tonight I'm under the influence of the full moon - which has a habit of disturbing the solace of a lonely night with the resurrection of slumbering memories. 

I toss and turn in a tangle of damp sheets and the stifling embrace of a humid room. Then I get up, sit by the open window and inhale a pallid breath of midnight air. The night is a gentle infusion of thickly clustered trees, silvery patches of moonglow, and the random neon-blink of fireflies.

In this deceptive hour of sacred solitude, long-closed chapters of my life unwittingly open and serve to haunt me with the tattered pages of distant things.

This rhapsodic night is not intended for those whose souls are devoid of poetry, nor those whose hearts are immuned to the poignant rapture of love. 

The ethereal moonlight of these midnight hours is reserved for the secret song of remembrance.

DEVOTION
(for W.G.H.)

When I think of you now
five years dead
it is impossible to perceive
the long burden of time that has spilled
beyond the threshold of our love.
It is too fresh in my memory:
that first autumn night
when a crisp November wind
wiped the stars clean
along with the slate of our future.

Those sacred hours after midnight
held the ripe secrets of our youth,
soaring with the sweet discovery
of each other,
singing with the eager prospect
of endless possibilities.

I tried to believe that eternal love
doesn't come this easily,
but the depth of our first kisses
forever expelled the thought
from my shadowed doubts
and united the scattered pieces
of our separate lives.

Where are you tonight,
when old memories resurrect
the timeless multitude of windswept stars
and lonely hours are filled
with echoes of our depthless devotion?

 Jon V.
from Love Letters to Ghosts




Note:
if you don't like poetry, you might like the fake photos on my other blog, at this link:
Cabinet of Curious Treasures  

LESSER DEGREES OF LOSS

 

The greatest loss that we will ever experience is the death of a loved one. I've experienced many such losses, and with each one a part of my own life was subtracted and subsequently will never be regained.

The losses I'm thinking about today, however, have nothing to do with death. They are monetary losses - or losses of personal possessions that have sentimental value. As an incurable sentimentalist, I can fiercely relate to this.

I've known numerous people who, for one unfortunate reason or another, have lost everything. Several of my relatives are included. My cousin Cookie (Elizabeth) in New Jersey lost all her possessions when her house burned down (happened long ago).

My cousin Nancy - who presently lives a few miles away from me here in Tennessee - was a former resident of Homestead, Florida. She lost everything in August, 1992, when Hurricane Andrew demolished the entire city.

I've never experienced such a great loss of possessions and wouldn't know how to cope with it.  Starting from scratch isn't easy. Optimistic fools will say "Well, at least you have your life. You can always replace possessions."

I would answer "No way in hell can you replace treasured possessions. Everything that enhanced and confirmed my existence is gone."

While in the process of moving from Texas to Tennessee - I suddenly realized that I don't need 85% of the things I own. The idea of downsizing and becoming a minimalist is very tempting, yet it's an impossibility for a hardcore sentimentalist. I have an incredibly hard time letting go of my treasures. The simplest things often evoke the strongest memories: a photo, a letter, a book. Shells retrieved on the beach during a walk with someone special. A dried flower pressed between pages.

Mildly interesting, Jon, but where is this blog post taking us?

It's taking you on a sentimental journey. We'll get there soon enough - just don't try to make me climax prematurely. Telling a good story takes time. Just like having good sex takes time.

No need to get nasty, Jonathan. Is your mind always in the gutter?

Yes. Always.

I've mentioned in a previous blog post that - during my move from Texas to Tennessee - the movers somehow managed to lose (misplace? steal?) some of my most cherished possessions. It seems almost beyond belief that some of these items happen to be things I loved the most. So far I've gotten no explanation or restitution (more about this later).

Among many "missing" items are antique books, a valuable oil painting, some of my piano music, and a large three-drawer tool chest containing every tool I ever owned.

The most upsetting thing is that all of my mother's (and grandmother's) piano music is gone - - and so are all of my California diaries.

My maternal grandmother had an enormous amount of piano sheet music from the 1920's and 30's. 
My mother played the piano since she was a child and had a large collection of music from the 1940's through the 1970's. Every single one of them is missing.

The most devastating thing to me is the loss of all my handwritten diaries and journals that I kept in California from when I was ten years old until I moved out of state when I was 35. A total of about thirty volumes.


In essence, these journals contained my entire California existence. They were a meticulous and extremely private account of every aspect of my life. There is no price that could compensate for the valuable wealth of information in them.

Besides all of my deepest and most personal thoughts, these journals documented everything that I ever did: my school and college years, my Hollywood years, every concert and performance that I ever gave, and every concert that I attended - - information about the rehearsals I had, the places I lived and visited, my friends, the famous people I've met. It revealed the sordid details of my love affairs (that alone is priceless).

It's bitterly ironic that I'm in the fledgling process of writing my memoir and desperately need my journals to use as a guideline and memory refresher. I now have nothing tangible to rely on but the recesses of my raw memory.

Is there a moral to this lengthy tale of woe?

If you're ever in the process of moving and have items that you cherish - don't entrust them to anyone and don't let them out of your sight. 

I made the horrendous mistake of trusting the movers. I should have taken these things in the car with me when I drove to Tennessee, but I already had three cats in large cages. There wasn't enough room.

The final kick in the ass - -

Between moving and storage costs, I paid these bastards nearly $10,000.