Eulogy for my Poet

"We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own, live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan. "
-Irving Townsend

Faulkner came into my life four years ago and has been ripped out of it all too soon. In the spring of 2004, we travelled to Madisonville to collect Fidel, a five week old Manchester Terrier we had planned to adopt. While waiting for paperwork and vaccines to be completed, little Faulkner (3 months old at the time) courted me with the vigilance of a Shakespearean hero- a pleading look, a rub against my legs, a kiss on the hand. It took all of ten minutes for me to fall in love with him, and it became inevitable that we would be taking two dogs home with us that day- baby Fidel and my poet, Faulkner. He was so handsome and so sensitive- and though I realize it is in our nature to anthropomorphize our pets, I have never known a more empathic creature than my dear Faulkner.

The breeder intimated that Faulkner had been rescued from a potentially abusive situation. Quick to cower and nervous about new people, this was not difficult to believe. His innocent anxiety and eagerness to please tugged on my heartstrings, and I vowed to do absolutely everything I could to make him feel all the love I could manage. Doting on him day and night, I was oftentimes accused of favoritism- an unfair accusation, since my behavior was in response to a need I saw in him. And eventually, Faulkner grew more confident and comfortable in his world.

At the dog park, Faulkner would choose the biggest and boldest dogs as his playmates. Proud and newly confident, he equated himself with the likes of German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers- dogs two, three, and four times his size. He was mischievous. Not particularly interested in playing fetch, he did, however, love the game of taking balls and toys away from Fidel... and he was good at it, being faster and more lithe. Faulkner also taunted his companion by commanding the prime lap space- even when it meant displacing an already settled Fidel. It was standard practice for Fidel's growls to be met with a casual and disinterested glance from Faulkner. Knowing how to endear himself, it was most important to him that he be close to me.

Yet, Faulkner shined most when allowed to run free. I would take him to the wilderness trails at Memorial Park and with no present threat, would let him off the leash to enjoy the woods. He was like a graceful gazelle... sleek, elegant, and effortless. Watching him fly through the trees was perhaps one of the simple pleasures that brought me the most joy in my life. He was leaping with that same natural grace when he fatefully crossed the street in front of a car right before my eyes a few days ago. I suppose it is some comfort that his last moments were spent running free, as he loved so much- his final act of good-natured rebellion and mischief.

As any dog-owner would, I adored darling Faulkner. Yet, I may humor myself to think that I may have been more attached to him than usual. Having weathered a difficult time two years ago, my two dogs were my anchor. They were the family I saw everyday- a constant source of unconditional, unadulterated love and affection. Quick to console with kisses, they helped me through one of the most tumultuous periods of my life. No day meant defeat when I could finally lie in bed as Faulkner wriggled under the covers, sidling up next to me. Cunning and hyper-intelligent for a dog, I have no doubt this registered at least in some small way with him- he was special that way. Faulkner always seemed especially attuned to my emotions... and he stood faithfully at my side until the storm was over- lovingly repaying my initial kindness with kindness of his own.

On the very day I lost him, I spent the morning rejoicing him. With him curled up on my unmade bed, I held him tight and thanked God for bringing him into my life. At that moment, he was like a reluctant little boy, squirming in his mother's embrace- but I know he loved all the attention, for he would come begging for it in its absence. I will forever cherish the memory of that wonderful morning when I could show him, one last time, how much I loved him

Faulkner, you were an extraordinary animal and a dear friend to me- the best kind. Loyal, loving, and sensitive to a fault, I count myself so blessed to have had the great fortune of caring for you these past four years. Your life was a precious gift to me, and your death shall not be in vain. My darling puppy, you have taught me such an important lesson. Both with your sprightly gait and through your untimely death, you have taught me that life is magnificent, yet so fleeting and precious. I find myself surrounded by so many friends and loved ones, so many bountiful gifts, and so much beauty in my life- I promise you I will do my best to appreciate it all and to remind those loved ones of my gratitude with every breath. And with every breath, my dear Faulkner, I will carry a part of you with me.

Faulkner

February 4, 2004 - February 26, 2008

the cyndi/jenni chronicles

she and i amuse ourselves with email banter...

exchange 1:

From: Jenni
Sent: Tuesday, August 28, 2007
To: Cynthia
RE: Is Facebook the new Match.com?

no, seriously. the good ones are all unavailable. i'm not kidding here. either emotionally...or physically (as in, they live in different time zones...or perhaps they hide in jungles)...or legally.

i'm wondering when other women will start to realize this. the answer? a total upheaval of our preconceived notions of love and relationships. we women should stop accepting advances and proposals and such...just long enough until there is an established population of easily identifiable single men. then, we herd them, corrall them, drug them, and subject them to tom hanks/meg ryan movies...just long enough until they understand what it is we want. then, we beat them into submission. and make them like it. then, we pick and choose as we please...maybe some sort of rental policy. except...not like an old blockbuster type rental...more of a netflix rental. as in, we can send them back when we're tired of them without penalty of late fees. but perhaps with the candy, popcorn, and cold drink option. :)

Her response:

A) Legally unavailable? Are you going after 12 year olds now? I suppose if you can't find a good man, raise one.

2) Interesting system you propose. Is there, at any time, an option to buy?

Banana) I wonder what kind of a comparable system guys would propose, if given the opportunity. I think it would be remarkably similar, only replace the tom hanks/meg ryan movies with adult films.

exchange 2:

From: Jenni
Sent: Thursday, August 30, 2007
To: Cynthia
Subject: who's tim
gunn?

her response:

Ah, you clearly have better things to do with your life than watch reality shows on Bravo. Tim Gunn is the mentor on Project Runway (he's also the dean or something of Parson's school for design). He's the most fabulously well dressed older gay man ever. He says things like "carry on" and "sturm und drang."

my response:

i'm over older gay men. even of the fabulously dressed variety. in fact, i'm over gay men in general. you do realize that i work with one straight man in an office of approximately 40? one. and he's the CEO. i'd even question his orientation if he didn't wear big belt buckles and drink shiner out of the bottle. i work in musical theatre for godssake! (jazz hands!) it couldn't get any queenier around here if elizabeth I walked in the damn door.

on the other hand, i AM indeed impressed with anyone who can throw around terms referring to late 18th-century german expressionist movements. and thanks to my music schooling, i didn't even have to wiki that. ;)

her response:

Oh, Jenni Rebecca. You are so educated and clever. ;)

I (only kinda) feel your pain. I was looking around the cafeteria today thinking about what NASA engineers are (incredibly intelligent, generally nice) and what they are not (attractive, socially adept, well dressed). I am wasting my youth on men who actually want me for my mind. How depressing.

my response:

clever? oh pish. thou doth possesseth a keen wit thrice the magnitude of mine own.

to be wanted for one's mind is nothing to sneeze at...it's a comfort when we start to sag in all the wrong places.

regarding NASA men, the fact that they are unattractive and can't dress should be secondary to the fact they can never be fired and probably have decent pension plans. find one with particularly thick bottle-cap glasses...perhaps one getting on in years...and who knows what you can get away with! you see, all of the above never stopped the NASA geeks from walking into the jewelry store at baybrook with astoundingly beautiful russian brides on their arms. i never once questioned the harmony of the universe when i could witness the sweet balancing forces of nature in action. and to take it one step further, these NASA men and their rusky counterparts are doing our dear world a favor. we mustn't get carried away with sharp intellect or a great pair of legs---no! we must do our part to even the playing field for the human race. no more is it necessary for the blind, pocket-protector-donning egg-head doomed to walk this lonely earth alone...or with the adult equivalent of the little girl in lil' miss sunshine. (mind you, i am not poking fun at that little girl---i looked just like her at 8 years old.) no! instead they have their pick of gorgeous, though intellectually confounded women to assist them in upping the ante for the gene pool. we owe them all our deepest gratitude. yay for mail order brides!

...now if only we could manufacture the mail equivalent.

her response:

Ya know, I see your point regarding NASA men, but the truth is that I, too, am a NASA employee and therefore can never be fired and have awesome health insurance, pension plan, etc. I also come with the added bonus of being attractive and dressing well. I guess what I'm saying is - where's my russian bride?

my response:

well, cynthia...you seem to be forgetting the options before you. nowhere does it say you can't have a russian bride. you will just have to go to hawaii or montreal to marry her, that's all.

and PS, i am not a LUSH...luscious perhaps. :)

mi familia loca

my brother and i are in the kitchen. we are laughing so hard we are crying. the rest of the party is still in the dining room...the children have wandered back upstairs. the water in the sink is running, masking the sound of our laughter. we are dumping a full bowl of something down the drain... on the DL. we don't want anyone to see- especially not our great aunt. this is because we are dumping the entire bowl of what she called 'copper pennies' down the drain. indeed, we are destroying the evidence that not a single person touched the copper pennies she made over dinner. (to describe these 'copper pennies,' think of baby carrots swimming in a vat of brownish, congealed cinnamon syrup.)

alas, this is not the first time the family has had to adjust... compensate... act like my aunt's cooking is tolerable. one of my fondest memories of my family is one thanksgiving day, many years ago- i must have been eight or nine years old. we were standing around my grandmother's dining room table- maybe 30 people or more. (my grandmother was probably the most laid-back person i have ever known. always embodying a more-the-merrier attitude, our family dinners would not only include the extended family, but also the friends, dates, and even ex-husbands and ex-wives of all involved. once a part of my family, you never quite escaped.) so, we're all standing around the table in anxious anticipation of the holiday meal. my great aunt had been put in charge of the turkey cooking- now was time for the turkey carving. the turkey is brought in- collective 'oohs' and 'ahs' from everyone. my dad approaches the bird, knives in hand. he starts to cut it and .......................................................it bleeds.

flash forward almost ten years. my grandmother is gone and with her, the big family dinners with the extended family. my parents are divorced. my brother has three children and is also now divorced. my great uncle is gone. my aunt is now married and spends many holidays with her new family. and in so many ways, my family is the picture of dysfunction. nonetheless, i still can't help but count myself lucky to have the family i do.

yesterday, my mother prepared a belated birthday brunch for my father. my god-father was in town, so it made for a nice celebration. neither my brother nor my father were taking up the old family tradition of initiating religious or political discussions over the meal. (the other tradition being discussion of all things inappropriate, to which my grandma would usually shout, "no potty-talk at the table!") seeing that the men were falling down on the job, i took up the mantle and mentioned my recent visit to the new monica pope restaurant: 'beaver's.' (at this point, we can only hope the conversation was going over my great aunt's head.)

after dinner, my godfather (from hamburg, germany) zealously pulls out some sheet music and announces that he should play while we sing happy birthday... which we did. but let it be known that, at the stephenson household, when any one person sits down at the piano, a can of worms has been opened. (my brother and i seriously studied piano, and my father and i have always sung together... that was always the way he and i communicated best.) so, upon insistence from my mother, the piano singalong continued. i scrounged our sheet music collection for anything worthwhile (that i hadn't stolen and left at my apartment) and seated myself at the piano. suddenly, the whole room was tied together in song... a little gershwyn (porgy and bess, then showtunes), some standards, etc. the grand finale being a resounding chorus of annie's 'tomorrow'....shouted at the top of my father's and godfather's lungs and making us all laugh. and i sat there at the piano thinking i could ask for nothing better than moments like that.

once the singalong had concluded, my great aunt insisted that we cut the cake she brought. she explained that it was a greek cake with a coin baked into it, in a similar fashion as a king's cake- the recipient of the coin winning good luck for the year. we were all so full that no one was particularly interested in eating this cake... one that more closely resembled a loaf of bread... AND that turned out to be something she received BEFORE christmas. so, once again, the family was obliged to humor her. and following suit, we all cut large slices of cake, pretended to take a tiny bite, and then claimed to be too full to finish... my godfather was the only one to eat the whole thing, being the exceedingly good sport that he is.

and while i watched the family try to discreetly dispose of their stale piece of greek bread-cake, it was reaffirmed: being a family is not about being picture-perfect... what binds us together is what we endure together.

misadventures in narrative

those that read this blog regularly are probably aware that i've gotten into a bit of fiction writing lately. most things are inspired by personal experiences, but i've used my own life as a point of launch more than as source material for my writing in its entirety. i've hesitated to post these compositions at a public URL, since many pieces have a very personal slant to them. i do not want them confused with my more typical blog entries, nor perceived as diary entries- they are fictional in nature.

however, if you happen to be interested in taking a gander, here they are: www.firstcourseinflight.blogspot.com.