The 1000-lb IBM mainframe computer I bought last week on eBay is slowly flattening the tires on my Mercury Villager van as I try to figure out how to get it out without killing or maiming anyone. The kittens are shredding the new $2000 living room set. We covered the sofa and chair with sheets, so the the atomic runts take turns, one running under the sheets while the other pounces on the moving lump. Then they both go under, come out from different ends, look around and run head first into each other, claws out, mewling and slam-hugging like WWF stars. At work yesterday someone said we had to foil the upholstery. I thought but did not say we really needed to foil the kittens.
My neck hurts so bad I can't turn my head, and Maggie, (the elder cat who has been plagued by the kittens) is sick, stunned into a lethargy by either the vaccinations we gave her Saturday morning or by the realization that these frenetic hairballs will be with her until she flings her last enraged hiss at the encroaching mewing mini-demons of her personal void.
My son is sleepless, driven by visions of truth and beauty that can't be contained in a 16 year old's normal waking routines. I am divided between my concerns as a caretaker and pride as a father watching him get strung out while he struggles to translate the visions that cut Plato and the Alchemists from their herds in their day, into language that might fit alternative rock lyrics in our material midnight.
Sara is a constant beacon of sanity, care, humor as I fragment and bounce like a thousand pachinko balls among the glittering pins of my various imperatives. God give us grace and rest. Amen.
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