What to do with a 15 year old…18 pound, Cat

I sit at a keyboard with no letters.

I light a cigarette.

I stare at the venomous screen.

So much to say.

So little pushes through.

So far, I am in the…in-between.

Strong as my back is…built upon years of slaying dragons and their flies.

Far as my gaze can reach…daytime bats, the blue-jays, frolic and distort all that I wish to see.

And, of course, the pitter-patter of a fifteen year old, eighteen pound cat, he knows exactly where my mind is at.

He taunts me like a catholic mother.

Guilt ridden, I am side tracked…insight, will never just hover.

What a show to behold!

Therefore, I always embrace it.

For it is with certainty, recollections will fade…imagery will be less bold.

Praying for Words

A long and arduous journey…getting to the bottom of words.

those that are remembered

those that I have written down

those jumbled in sleepy positions…only to waken us with cold sweat.

One has to be curious…have my sentences…changed my world?

I pitch a tent, repeatedly, at the godforsaken, blasphemous, bolted door.

But words never take off her shoes…

she never promises to stay.

My words rush out in a horribly, organized, chaotic…state.

Massive…this war on word!

I shove letter upon letter onto an empty, paper plate.

And, my compromised, composition, kneels shoulder to shoulder at the church of lost faith.

How Many is Too Many…Cats?

Millions of Cats – Wanda Gag

**America’s oldest picture book/1928

Once upon a time there was an old man and an old woman who were very lonely. The very old man and the very old woman lived together in a house surrounded by flowers.  The only thing missing in their lives was ‘an adorable furry’ cat.   And, so the old man went out searching.   He found not one cat, but millions and billions and trillions of cats! Unable to decide which one would be the best pet, he brought them all home.

Which poses a new problem…too many cats!

millions of cats

In the long run, the cats eat each other.

Leaving only the homeliest cat…who only needs some love and milk to become beautiful.


Letters to Humanity

Back in the day, if you did not wish to disturb the rents.  Your only choice other than a ‘personal’, 1 to 1 phone call?  A letter!  Many a letter had been sent informing my family of up coming events:

North Carolina postmark – the repo man is after me.

Birmingham postmark – In a bad section of town on dry/blue law Sunday.  Out of gas…and, a little concerned.

New London postmark – So happy here at school.  Who knew an all woman’s college had been the only place I could truly be me!

So on and so forth!

But what of the letter writing?  What of communicating with one another?  What about the ‘post scripts’?  I always looked forward to the post scripts.

Joseph Merrick, known as, the Elephant Man, had been severely mangled, as a child.  Born with an illness that debilitated him physically and distorted his body.  He had been a sideshow freak in a circus.  He had been abandoned by family.  Often, Merrick, had been the recipient of society’s hate of those different than us.

John eventually ended up in the care of Dr. Treves, Royal London Hospital.  Health care being such like that in America.  London Hospital could not afford to care for John.  And, hence, as history shows…letter writing is a wonderful art form.  As well as, a platform to appreciate the human kindness that roars it’s beautiful mane from time to time.

Letter to the London Times speaking of John’s story and a plea for help in his care.

the elephant man

4 December 1886

To the Editor of The Times

Sir, – I am authorized to ask your powerful assistance in bringing to the notice of the public the following most exceptional case. There is now in a little room off one of our attic wards a man named Joseph Merrick, aged about 27, a native of Leicester, so dreadful a sight that he is unable even to come out by daylight to the garden. He has been called “the elephant man” on account of his terrible deformity. I will not shock your readers with any detailed description of his infirmities, but only one arm is available for work.

Some 18 months ago, Mr Treves, one of the surgeons of the London Hospital, saw him as he was exhibited in a room off the Whitechapel-road. The poor fellow was then covered by an old curtain, endeavouring to warm himself over a brick which was heated by a lamp. As soon as a sufficient number of pennies had been collected by the manager at the door, poor Merrick threw off his curtain and exhibited himself in all his deformity. He and the manager went halves in the net proceeds of the exhibition, until at last the police stopped the exhibition of his deformities as against public decency.

Unable to earn his livelihood by exhibiting himself any longer in England, he was persuaded to go over to Belgium, where he was taken in hand by an Austrian, who acted as his manager. Merrick managed in this way to save a sum of nearly £50, but the police there too kept him moving on, so that his life was a miserable and hunted one. One day, however, when the Austrian saw that the exhibition pretty well played out, he decamped with poor Merrick’s hardly-saved capital of £50, and left him alone and absolutely destitute in a foreign country. Fortunately, however, he had something to pawn, by which he raised sufficient money to play his passage back to England, for he felt that the only friend he had in the world was Mr Treves of the London Hospital. He therefore, through with much difficulty, made his way there, for at every station and landing place the curious crowd thronged and dogged his steps that it was not an easy matter for him to get about. When he reached the London Hospital he had only the clothes in which he stood. He has been taken in by our hospital, though there is, unfortunately, no hope of his cure, and the question now arises what is to be done with him in the future.

He has the greatest horror of the workhouse, nor is it possible, indeed, to send him into any place where he could not insure privacy, since his appearance is such that all shrink from him. The Royal Hospital for incurables and the British Home for Incurables both decline to take him in, even if sufficient funds were forthcoming to pay for him.

The police rightly prevent his being personally exhibited again; he cannot go out into the streets, as he is everywhere so mobbed that existence is impossible; he cannot, in justice to others, be put in the general ward of a workhouse, and from such, even if possible, he shrinks with the greatest horror; he ought not to be detained in our hospital (where he is occupying a private ward, and being treated with the greatest kindness – he says he has never before known in his life what quiet and rest were), since his case is incurable and not suited, therefore, to our overcrowded general hospital; the incurable hospitals refuse to take him in even if we paid for him in full, and the difficult question therefore remains what is to be done for him.

Terrible though his appearance is, so terrible indeed that women and nervous persons fly in terror from the sight of him, and that he is debarred from seeking to earn his livelihood in an ordinary way, yet he is superior in intelligence, can read and write, is quiet, gentle, not to say even refined in his mind. He occupies his time in the hospital by making with his one available hand little cardboard models, which he sends to the matron, doctor, and those who have been kind to him. Through all the miserable vicissitudes of his life he has carried about a painting of his mother to show that she was a decent and presentable person, and as a memorial of the only one who was kind to him in life until he came under the kind care of the nursing staff of the London Hospital and the surgeon who has befriended him.

It is a case of singular affliction brought about through no fault of himself; he can but hope for quiet and privacy during a life which Mr Treves assures me is not likely to be long.

Can any of your readers suggest to me some fitting place where he can be received? And then I feel sure that, when that is found, charitable people will come forward and enable me to provide him with such accommodation. In the meantime, though it is not the proper place for such an incurable case, the little room under the roof of our hospital and out of Cotton Ward supplies him with all he wants. The Master of the Temple on Advent Sunday preached an eloquent sermon on the subject of our Master’s answer to the question, ‘”who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’ Showing how one of the Creator’s objects in permitting men to be born to a life of hopeless and miserable disability was that the works of God should be manifested in evoking the sympathy and kindly aid of those on whom such a heavy cross is not laid.

Some 76,000 patients a year pass through the doors of our hospital, but I have never before been authorized to invite public attention to any particular, case, so it may well be believed that this case is exceptional.

Any communication about this should be addressed either to myself or to the secretary at the London Hospital.

I have the honour to be, Sir, yours obediently,

F C Carr-Gomm,
Chairman London Hospital.

16 April 1890

To the Editor of the Times

Sir, – In November, 1886, you were kind enough to insert in The Times a letter from me drawing attention to the case of Joseph Merrick, known as ‘the elephant man.’ It was one of singular and exceptional misfortune; his physical deformities were of so appalling a character that he was debarred from earning a livelihood in any other way than by being exhibited to the gaze of the curious. This having been rightly interfered with by the police of this country, he was taken abroad by an Austrian adventurer, and exhibited at different places on the Continent; but one day his exhibitor, after stealing all the savings poor Merrick had carefully hoarded, decamped, leaving him destitute, friendless and powerless in a foreign country.

With great difficulty he succeeded somehow or other in getting to the door of the London Hospital, where, through the kindness of one of our surgeons, he was sheltered for a time. The difficulty then arose as to his future; no incurable hospital would take him in, he had a horror of the workhouse, and no place where privacy was unattainable was to be thought of, while the rules and necessities of our general hospital forbade the fund and space, which are set apart solely for cure and healing being utilized for the maintenance of a chronic case like this, however abnormal. In this dilemma, while deterred by common humanity from evicting him again into the open street, I wrote to you, and from that moment all difficulty vanished; the sympathy of many was aroused, and, although no other fitting refuge offered, a sufficient sum was placed at my disposal, apart from the funds of the hospital, to maintain him for what did not promise to be a prolonged life. As an exceptional case the committee agreed to allow him to remain in the hospital upon the annual payment of a sum equivalent to the average cost of an occupied bed.
Here, therefore, poor Merrick was enabled to pass the three and a half remaining years of his life in privacy and comfort. The authorities of the hospital, the medical staff, the chaplain, the sisters, and nurses united to alleviate as far as possible the misery of his existence and he learnt to speak of his rooms at the hospital as his home. There he received kindly visits from many, among them the highest in the land, and his life was not without various interests and diversions: he was a great reader and was well supplied with books through the kindness of a lady, one of the brightest ornaments of the theatrical profession, he was taught basket making, and on more than one occasion he was taken to the play, which he witnessed from the seclusion of a private box.

He benefited much from the religious instruction of our chaplain, and Dr Walsham How, then Bishop of Bedford, privately confirmed him, and was able by waiting in the vestry to hear and take part in the chapel services. The days before his death, Merrick was twice thus attending the chapel services, and in the morning partook of the Holy Communion; and in the last conversation he had with him Merrick had expressed his feeling of deep gratitude for all that had been done for him here, and his acknowledgement of the mercy of God to him in bringing him to this place. Each year he much enjoyed a six week’s outing in a quiet cottage, but was always glad on his return to find himself once more ‘at home.’ In spite of all this indulgence he was quiet and unassuming, very grateful for all that was done for him, and conformed himself readily to the restrictions which were necessary.

I have given these details, thinking that those who sent money to use for his support would like to know how their charity was applied. Last Friday afternoon, though apparently in his usual health, he quietly passed away in sleep.

I have left in my hands a small balance of the money which has been sent to me from time to time for his support, and this I now propose, after paying certain gratuities, to hand over to the general funds of the hospital. This course, I believe, will be consonant with the wishes of the contributors.

It was the courtesy of The Times in inserting my letter in 1886 that procured for this afflicted man a comfortable protection during the last years of a previously wretched existence, and I desire to take this opportunity to thankfully acknowledging it.

I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

F C CARR GOMMakira beard homages to John Merrick
House committee Room London Hospital, 15 April
Letter writing?  What a lost art form?  History and humanity strewn about.  Sometimes, carefree.  Sometimes, as careful as, showing how vulnerable we are.



Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks by Jane Kenyon


I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .
I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper….
When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .
I am food on the prisoner’s plate. . . .
I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .
I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .
I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .
I am the heart contracted by joy. . . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .
I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .
I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .
I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .