Electrical Outage

Thank goodness I don't sleep through the night anymore, in fact, a solid night's sleep worries me not so much with guilt but as if I missed something, or my body is shutting down to a point of coma. The type of wakefulness comes in cycles, where for months I may lie awake for two hours before dropping back, or the other sort of maybe two short bursts of huh? last for maybe five minutes each.

I can sleep through thunderstorms, fire alarms, and games of cat rocket where my body is the launching and landing site, evidenced by cat scratch skid marks on my torso in the morning. Sometimes a dream or an argument from the asshole whose nouns, adjectives, and verbs are variants of the f-word and his girlfriend downstairs will wake me. Actually it can't be an argument if it's one-sided, for I never hear her voice retaliate against this adult bully. If not an argument, he enlightens the remaining tenants with brain piercing sentiment exemplifying the type of rock music played at carnival attractions. I defy him and his stupid music by falling back asleep. Defiant sleeping is art; learn it, use it, be happy in it, especially when you wake up in the morning and drop a number of pots and pans on the linoleum in the bedroom. Oops, you bastard. Crazy thing is, his mother lives with them.

Regardless, the cats come in around five a.m. for a visit during their break on their cat jobs. Hi, how are ya, feel like opening a can of loaf yet? Martian will get right up to my face and pat my mouth, like kittens do with their mothers. Aw cute. Now go away. Go. Good boy, I love you too, leave me alone, just another half hour. Get. He insists for a head scratching, he is sixteen and not destined for too much longer as he is diabetic. I know there is kibble in his dish, he just wants me up so he can hear a can open. I try to be nice, but will hide under the covers until he goes to the end of the bed and flumps down with a deep, impatient exhalation. I have the alarm set for five thirty anyway, so it's not a big deal.

Kai will also stop by around that time, maybe earlier in the four o'clock hour and ask to be put up in the window. Next to the bed is a higher window just beyond their reach and so she will sit underneath looking towards it and say up. She doesn't use the word up, I haven't gone that far, but when I ask her Up? she asserts with a short bark of a meow. You wanna go up? Rowr. I scoop one hand under her ribs, cup her back feet with the other and propel her upwards. As she goes I again say Up, and she replies: Rowr! You may next see us in the Russian kooshka circus.

It's one of those little sideways windows, so it's cracked open just enough for her to stick her head up to the screen for breezes and a view of the lake. Her fat tail hangs down as she watches the lights of the traffic go by. When the old screen let fat city spiders in, she would snatch them up and deliver them near my head. New screen now keeps them separate and safe. There are few physical experiences as intense as waking up to a crisis, for your body is moving before the brain gets back completely online. It can be painful, the synapses frantically are plugging in, neurons are confused, and the sandman has been kicked in the shins by adrenalin. This happens when a feather light brush of spider legs runs over your cheek, and by god, the arachnid is trying to escape and sure doesn't want your company but you aren't interested in justice or The Right Path, only spider certain death.

Spiders on the face end all altruistic morality, the poor creathur gets whomped to a smear, and the cat would like to know what the hell is wrong with you, that was a gift.

Anyway, it was Martian this morning patting my mouth with an orange paw, and thank goodness because the alarm clock was blinking from an electrical outage that occurred about one a.m. The neighbors said an immense thunderstorm passed through but again, I slept like innocence. I have battery run clocks around, so I staggered to find out what time it really was and reset the alarm. It was Martian's usual round of orange pestering at five, so I was happy he had appeared. I can't be late for work.

On the way out to the car in the midst of the asphalt of the lot, a young worm inched its way obviously disorientated. I can only imagine that a bird dropped it, this worm was so far away from any worm-friendly environment, with bits of small stone beginning to stick to its sides. The poor thing was trying, so I picked him/her (we don't have a good pronoun for a being that contains both genders, what's up with that?) up and took herm to the edge where moist soil and wet grass could rehydrate the senses. We need all the worms we can get, everything else is disappearing, we are in big trouble if the little things die out.

The streets were still puddled from the night storm, the grass wet and blossoms flush. Near where I park at work, there is scrap land containing a patch of sweetpeas in bloom amid the garbage. This area once held a building, and remnants of daylilies stick out between the Queen Anne's lace and blue cornflowers. Squirrels have planted black walnut trees, and an old cherry tree hangs at the edge of this lot.

Later in the day on my way to the car, there was a lifeless bump in the road just before the empty field. It bothers me that anything, once dead, should be subjected to further indignity, and cars were carefully going around it, in this tough, inner city neighborhood. Don't tell me people don't care. I walked over and picked up the small cat by it's hind legs, you could tell it hadn't suffered, the initial blow was to the head, and carried it to the field where the thicker growth was and let the taller grass be a shield for the little black and grey body.

It will go back into the earth, the minerals of iron and calcium will be incorporated into the soil where it will supply nutrients to countless beings. This cat and the molecules of chemistry that formed its tissue will break down and yet still exist in blades of timothy, foxtail and red clover. In a thousand years, those molecules will endure, some break down and release heat, others go through the cycle for how long? Science and hippies say we are made of stardust, who knows what other incarnations this cat or any of us undertake? The electricity, however, is gone.

The night is cool and quiet, the sky taking on the deep blue just before the earth's rotation takes us into darkness. You sleep well; any little Martians are sleeping also, dreaming of can openers and fields.