Yogi #1 notices stray pistol cartridges in my foyer. “You have guns?”
Me: “Tons of guns.”
Yogi #2, who knows my ways, adds, “It’s OK, he’s a Kshatriya.”
Tag: loved ones
Aryan Invasion
My house has been invaded by yogis! It’s great!
Everywhere you go, you stumble over someone pacing and chanting silently, hunkered down translating Bengali hagiographies on an iMac, or playing ragas on a guitar in the garden. These guys all trail the scent of sandalwood around the house, they keep the kitchen always smelling of warm cauliflower and turmeric, and in various places they have white dhotis laid out to dry and little pots of paste for painting the tilaka on their foreheads.
Imagine you are a teenage heavy metal fan and then Black Sabbath descends on your house and throws a week-long rager. Only now imagine that instead of stone-cold rockers they’re yogis, and their idea of a tear-the-walls-down-to-the-studs party is to smile a lot, be fairly quiet, and laugh frequently. It’s just like that.
Everyone should have a yogic bliss squad of Hindu mendicants who takes their home over twice a year and rejuvenates the place. Haribol! (Don’t tell the Buddha I said that. I’ll get in trouble. Seriously.)
An Army of One Shih-Tzu
And just like that, the mornings turn chilly and the dogs need hooded fleece-lined camouflage jackets.
Shoot Straight, Be Queer!
Elements of the Thursday Freedom Squad fly our freak flag at Pride to support a gun buddy (not depicted here) who is cautiously emerging from the closet.
We are with you, Mysterious, Unnamed Gay Sharpshooter! Shoot straight, be queer!
Until you are ready to be fully and publicly Fabulous, we will be fab for you!
Freezebaby – In Memoriam JLH
The air here stinks with raunchy, hot freshness
in our high, dry forest of fir and pine.
For cumulus clouds we have mottled tufts
of shadow and our water would burn fast
into vapor if only we’d brought some.
The polychrome riot of lands where you dwelt
visits these hills in a lesser palette,
a high earthen rainbow of browns.
Here the freeze babies may jog forever,
Padding alongside their heavy-heeled men.
They give no thought to chill. No meals to finish here. The joggers sip thin wind.
Here once a year we make peace, the old lovers,
here, only now, mostly safe from each other.
Happy Birthday to Snoot
A lion-dog in winter. My supremely beloved little Snoot was born 14 years ago today outside Cambridge, Mass., and I became his babysitter the very next day. Even after years of callous parenting mistakes–like the dinner party where I ignored his meek “Help me!” looks all night as mere attention-seeking when in fact he had a wine cork lodged in his teeth–he holds no grudges and wants little more than to be wherever I am.
Happy birthday, my darling. I do not deserve you.
Bath Time
Disaster Averted
Thank you, Nature, for paternal instincts. From a deep sleep, I was rocked awake by the certain knowledge that in nine seconds, Snoot would vomit yesterday’s grass cuttings onto my mattress.