lookin' funny/funny lookin' - part 1

I'm watching my upstairs neighbor's cats. Because they asked me to. They are away and fond of their cats, I am near and fond of any cats. It's a win-win situation. Motorhead is the cat whose shadow I once mistook for an owl. We are, for all intents and purposes, best friends. Godzilla, the fluffy not fat but who's to say really because she won't let me touch her with a ten foot pole, however, looks at me like I am an alien. That's ok. I am comfortable with my human form. Being stared at wide eyed by a hissing black ewok would be unnerving if it weren't so cute.

On my way to Geode's, I passed a dead bird on the sidewalk. And by passed I mean took a giant step to avoid stepping upon, by bird I mean the partial remains of one. Two more steps and I stopped, turned back. No creature deserves that kind of indignity. Not having gloves of any kind with which to move the bird with, I scooted it with the toe of my boot. In the process, I lost my balance and stepped on the wing, almost snapping it. Finally placing it on the grass by the white picket fence, I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. At the exact moment that the fear 'people are gonna think I'm crazy' crossed my mind, I espied Bo Oddessy walking up the sidewalk on the other side of John St. He is dressed rather tame today, a bright orange knit cap, grayish pink wool coat, and tan kilty skirt. I know the twinkling sounds surrounding him are emanating from a fanny pack hidden by the folds of his coat, though, I like to think that it is his white beard making that sound. He turns the corner, I turn back to the bird. In lieu of a proper burial (or perhaps this is proper enough), I drag a few wet leaves over the bones, hold them down with wet twigs, top it off with a dewy feather. I stand up tall with my respects and for a moment, this bird and I are all that exist.

how do we not have more words for GRAY?

native winterland peoples have a ton of words for snow.
college peeps have just as many for the act of vomiting.
how is it, in the land of no sun ever, that we have but one word for the color that paints our every day existence? yes yes we have several words and descriptors for rain (light, wet, mist, downpour, shower, etc etc). but what of the clouds? it is always just CLOUDY. and the sky, it is always just GRAY. (Side note: Portland, I realized, is more gray than Seattle. how possible? you might ask. because it is flat and there is more unobstructed view of the gray sky. more gray sky equals grayer.) so might I suggest, for variety, we start getting a little more specific on this protective winter blanket we are tucked under. what about 'warm duvet gray'? tho with the rain, slight chill and no-nonsense mood I'm in, perhaps 'wet pavement gray' is more apt? (Portland skies could be 'magnetic gray' to many, 'dorian gray' a few maybe including me.) Some days, I will admit, it feels a little 'cinder block gray,' others lean towards 'silver lining gray,' though sometimes with a little effort called meditating and positive thought.
how is it volumes upon volumes of poetry, song and other literature have not been written on the subject? maybe it has and there's just not enough light that comes into my room for me to see the words on the page very clearly. perhaps it is not the most motivating of muses out there. is it the personification of confusion of neither here nor there? or the manifestation of balance of light and dark? a subtle sort of happy medium. 'stone partition gray' or 'cathedral gray,' 'solitaire gray' or 'campfire smoke gray'?
this day, this day like yesterday, the probable tomorrow.
gray gray gray.
dirty sock cardigan sweater. charcoal smudged figure drawings. matte finish laptop covers. the buttons on my cell phone, the fluff of dust in the cuff of my pegged pants.
gray gray gray, you've made my day.

duck. duck. goose.

stopped at the light at 12th and pike yesterday morning on my way to work, I witnessed the strangest, no- most magical thing. a goth/punk fellow walking his black lab, followed by half a dozen black crows. they were milling about in the trees, following him a few paces behind, diving down, hopping about, flying back up, eating whatever hansel and gretel crumbs he was spilling in his wake. I thought maybe they were gonna get tired after he crossed the street. but they followed him and his dog when he turned down the block, and again as he turned by the park. I thought maybe about going up to him and asking 'do you realize you are being followed by half a murder of crows?' but I did not, and kept biking.

closer to my work, there is a fountain, normally filled with water, as fountains are apt to do, but in that moment, devoid of it's usual cache, the cement was rain wet, the submersible light fixtures exposed. so, too, drying out, were tens of coins, a rough glittering of mostly copper, some silver. I thought maybe about stopping, collecting them all, gathering up people's wishes and setting them free (er, reappropriating them), but I did not, and kept biking, circling the fountain once more before beelining it to work.

is magic still magic if it remains observed? or is there a participatory element that completes the equation?
I heard the word MAGIC on your lips.
I saw the word MAGIC on the book you pulled down.
it sits in my ears, lays flat against my eyes.
I can almost taste it.

tea break, a stretch.

I'm staring out of my kitchen window at my neighbors house across the street.

Their windows like mirrors against the gray siding, reflecting gray skies and I see transparent trees warped and bloated.

Usually.

Today I can see inside: no one is home, or the lights are just off, and a giant crucifix is afixed to the gray in this light wall. Someone's bedroom? Jesus must be half my height.

Outside, one level down, the porch light that shines a lightning white streak across my pillow at night has closed it's eyes.

One house over, an empty terracotta pot, brightly painted with enthusiasm, sits to the side on the middle concrete step. It sports some shades of green, but none that match the moss of the stairs. Nor is there chromatic reference to the yellow of the house.

Further down, midway down the first flight of stairs, a crow with wide legged stance flicks a leaf belly up. Other crows spot the trees that lace the visual field that hangs over the street.

I refill my mug with warm water from the once hot kettle and settle back to my desk.