PRACTICE – I Don’t Remember – 10min

I don’t remember the name of the paint color I picked for most the house. It’s a creamy white and I love the way it contrasts against the dark wood beams. I don’t remember what kind of wood it is. I think it’s teak, stained dark, but even if someone told me I probably would forget.

I don’t remember the passwords I’ve selected for most of my many online accounts. I’m forever needing to give my password hint and reading those wavy number-letter combinations they ask you for to verify it’s you. Or at least that’s what I imagine those psychedelic number-letters are doing. Besides making you feel woozy for an instant.

I don’t remember good portions of my childhood, if I ever got to sleep with my older sister, the one closest to me in age. I loved everything about her. Her long straight hair, black not brown. Her skinny arms and lazy-looking eyes. I loved how she always wore miniskirts or bell bottoms and that she was neat. She kept her Barbies in a Barbie case, with tiny hangers, which I lost soon after she passed them all down to me. I remember cutting Skipper’s hair so short and then lamenting it couldn’t grow back. I don’t remember if the reason I cut it was because I thought it would grow back.

I don’t remember the name of my third grade teacher. I know it started with a Z. I know Miss Wood was first grade. Miss Wood with white-blond hair worn ala Marilyn Monroe, who was so beautiful I couldn’t believe she was a teacher. I remember Mrs. Salisbury, second grade, the first and only Black teacher I had in elementary and even junior high. They call New Mexico a tricultural state: Hispanic, American Indian, White. I wonder what it feels like being left out of the picture.

I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade. Those were spent in a new school. I remember wishing I had Mrs. Salisbury again.

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PRACTICE – I Don’t Remember – 10min

I don’t remember the last time I felt this scattered. I don’t remember what time I went to bed last night. I don’t remember the color of the frosting on the last birthday cake someone presented to me. I think it was an ice cream cake. No, that was the one I gave Liz for her last birthday earlier this year. We spooned it up into Tupperware sized chunks and stacked the containers in the freezer. Once in a while, she’d take one of the delectables out of the freezer and munch away in front of the TV. I was delighted that a birthday cake could last that long. I recommend ice cream birthday cakes.

I don’t remember the alarm going off yesterday or any of the 3 cats stirring in the night. I do remember Chaco bolting across my head to get to the prime night view out the bedroom window near the corner. The cats like to stare out the back windows. There is a tan rabbit who lives in a burrow there. We saw her sunning herself last summer, stretched out near a pile of weathered boards and brush, just like the cats would stretch out. She was licking herself. We named her Tawny. Even though she is wild.

Yesterday we got a letter in the mail from the new vet where we took Mr. Stripeypants last week. He had a urinary infection and at 9 years old, we decided to give him the Senior Package physical. He was scared. But I couldn’t believe how good he was when we were in the waiting room with a large Golden Lab, longhaired Persian, and that vicious little Min-Pin.

The letter, I was struck by it. We laughed our heads off. It was addressed to Liz and Mr. Stripeypants in the Dear section. What section is that, the opening or salutation? The bones of a letter. Hmmmm. Anyway, the rest of the letter was full of references to Mr. Stripeypants. We read it out loud to him and kept laughing about it all night. They said we got the best prize for the best name.

Liz got a ribbing at her office the other day when she was making the vet appointment. When the vet assistant asked her the name of her cat, she slowly spelling out, Mr. S-t-r-i-p-e-y-p-a-n-t-s. Her office mates teased her about it the rest of the day. So now in the morning, we get up and say very slowly, Mr. Stripeyp-a-n-t-s. But we call him – well, we call him Pants.

I don’t know why I’m writng about Pants. He’s an adorable cat and a source of joy for me on a daily basis. I don’t remember the last time I bonded to a pet like that. I had a 13 year old cat named Sasha. She died shortly after I moved into my apartment in 1992. I was still in art school.  And fresh out of a long, long relationship. It was very sad for me. And I was already depressed.

The vet let me take Sasha’s body home with me so I could bury her where I wanted. I sat with her for a while there on a yellow terry cloth towel and cried my eyes out. Later, I would go north with my ex-partner to bury Sasha on the cabin lot at the shore of Deer Lake in Wisconsin.

I don’t remember the last time I wrote about that. You never know what’s going to come out in a practice.

Tuesday, April 10th, 2007
 

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