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...Gheymond Fitzgerald: Asexual Detective...

McCavity the Cat lay frozen in time, his eyes struck in the moment of death.  The body lay upon its side, its arms outstretched as if reaching out for something (anything) to help him from whatever it was that cost him the last seconds of its life.  He was an old puss.  Had to been either a young 13 or a late 12.  He had the grey beard, the mottled skin around his joints.  McCavity had been an active one in his youth.

I creaked upon my haunches, knowing I may not be able to get up.  The rotund girth of my thighs, as they stretched the limits of my slacks, did not help me balance well.  My jacket was spread open: they would not close.  The well layered mass of fat made it hard to breath in this position.  But I had to see, had to risk the fall because, you see, McCavity was my cat.  This was my beloved puss.  He loved cookies.

Had I not been a veterinarian forensic detective, with twenty years of conceptual experience, and ten of those years in private practice, in the field - the sight of my poor cat, laying there in distress, it's body cold by the wet Niagara waters nearby, would have broken me.  Perhaps I would cry later.  Perhaps a lot.  Perhaps...too much.

The task at hand was to bring McCavity into a transport bag.  I brought along a Cracker Barrel store bag, it would do - I just had to take out the tasty pork sandwich first.  Awkwardly using a broken pencil and my finger to kind of drag him into the bag, I thought, after royally disturbing the area around his body, that I probably should have taken photos.  I stopped and panicked, "Is it too late now?"

I put the bag to the side and took out my 110 camera.  Lots of folks have gone digital, but not me.  That's just asking for trouble.  110 is the way to go.  Sure you have to send it to the one place in the country that still handles physical film.  But, it may cost twenty times more, and the shots are crap and it takes three to four weeks, but that suits me just fine.  Why upgrade if you know what you know, right?  I hate people with 'camera phones' - what's their beef?

I almost stood up, but teetered back instead.  I rolled, because my body's shape is just right for it.  I rolled almost completely over, but flayed my arms out, like a child, and came to stop before I went down the wet embankment.  My clothes soaked up the wet mess of the damp dirt.  I smelled urine - all kinds of it.

With some effort I stood and re-positioned my hair.  It was a utilitarian cut, cut in such a way that it sent the message that I was not afraid to grow hair and plenty of it.  My pudgy face was framed within that bowling cut like a puff-faced Buster Brown.  Now he (or her) knew style!  I shifted my practical shoes and pulled at my belt before proceeding.

A few shots with the Instamatic and McCavity's death throes were caught forever.  I wound the film forward, the rotary dial the only sound in the little copse.  Not wanting to bend down again, I just grabbed him by the tail and threw him in the paper bag.  I rolled up the top, much like how my mom would prepare my lunch when I went to elementary.  I shook him a bit to make sure he wasn't alive.  He remained still.  I sighed in relief.  Then I opened the bag again to make sure.  Yep.  He's still dead.

I looked around the copse for any clues.  Just trash.  "You did not deserve this McCavity."  I said it aloud.  I said it so the killer could hear me.  I said it for McCavity.  "That bastard is going to pay and I'm just the type of asexual veterinarian detective to do it."

I took him and waited at the Greyhound stop for the 3:45 PM.  Time to head back to the City of Dreams and found out what made McCavity lose his (dreams).

...a night...

And the queer silence outside the window, his mind unsettled.  It will rain soon.  Cold rain.  He didn't care for these nights.  The farm had only limited electricity - only to keep up a few lights and the milking equipment.  The power wouldn't work tonight.  The wind took care of that for him.  He ran a tally of items in his mind that would take priority at first light.  He hoped there wasn't a messy break in the line.

The wind kicked up fierce along the farm for about forty minutes.  He sat in his sweater and boots, tautly holding his arms together, though he tried to relax.  There was nothing he could do until pre-dawn.  The puddles would be a mix of ice and mud, and he couldn't afford a stupid slip in the dark.  He was going to force himself precaution, at least until this first front moved through.  A gust blew around both sides of the house, east and west sides - the glass and metal-ware through the house tingled like so many little bells.

'All depends on the rain', he whispered aloud in the silent kitchen.  There was warmth from the wood stove, which he tended fervently.  He used the wetter hickory tonight so it would burn longer.  Plus he knew he was over-tending it - drier wood would be gone in minutes the way it kept poking around.

The storm door slammed outward, hitting the side of the house, making him start.  He flexed his arms to keep them limber in the frigid room.  His dog had been asleep for hours now.  He stared at him with disregard, 'How could the dumb animal be so peaceful?'.  His face never knew anything than simple trusth, 'Shouldn't be the other way round?'.

The window's glass gave a bit.  It was the warmth versus the light touch of the cold front: a little breeze, but it was the coldest of the storm.  It would rain soon.  He moved about the kitchen to put rags underneath the doors.  The door's to the kitchen were already closed and bolted up.

He sat in the bosom of the high-back bench to sleep.  The night would have to take care of itself.  The storm was going to do what it must.  There would be little sleep tonight, but he would be up by 4:45 like every day since he was 11.  He wished he were more simple, like the dog, so he could rest.

...be yourself...

..standing in the Post line, staring at the greeting cards.  Did they believe it would save the bureaucracy?  I thought that first.  I held a yellow card for my parcel.

"Life is too short not to be yourself."  Really?  Did that card actually put that out there?  The generic, safe cards with photos of kooky animals.  It probably took the person designing it all of 5 minutes to dream up these doozies.  I hate to think they were pleased as punch when they saw that they layered the text: when they jiggered the fonts.  They added color so it could 'pop'.  Then they did it about four dozen times.

One had a llama with the funniest expression.  There was a cat, stretched awkwardly upward in obvious reach of its toy, the tag read something about a high five.  There was a meerkat in a blurred pose.  In its paws were crystal clear yellow irises; they couldn't look more mismatched.  I question their photoshopping skills.  Could they not get the shading to match, in the least?  [What is taking this lady at the counter so long to decide if she needs to spend $225 to track this package?  You know you wont spend that much to make sure the comforter gets to Poland.]

The woman two clerks down always scowls at me.  She knows I know her.  This job is killing her: its safe.  She plays it safe.  Her light skin and Eastern Bloc features belie, through a forced smile, that she's hoping something will change.  They made them remove their pictures because of new countertops.  She only ever had an old photo of her and her sister.   They must commiserate constantly.

I get my parcel.  The day goes on.  I wonder later in the day why that insipid phrase resonates with me...

...ed è qui che ho visto un vecchio amico...or Isabella...or Giotto at the San Croce...

Being naive to opera is a wonderful thing.  As someone who adores it, but not having memory heavily invested in it, allows one to still be able to be surprised.  Listening to SiriusXM last Sunday morning, Met Opera Radio was playing a 2004 performance of Levine's "Italiani d'Algeri"  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L%27italiana_in_Algeri.  The performance was filled with obvious delight, the lilt of voices and their interplay was infectious.  I look forward to exploring it more via a used DVD - the 2004 may not be available but there is a 2007 version out there somewhere.

The play, as best I can guess, is a comedy based upon the whims of the Turkish Bey (or regional chieftain), who wants to love an Italian girl.  There is an elaborate intertwine of the sexes, with the focal point the beautiful (and Italian) Isabella.  Her true love is for Lindoro.  And, in true comedic style, despite things looking bleak, Isabella and Lindoro connect at the end, with the Bey looking foolish and swearing off Italian women forever.  (The full performance, though I question its value is available on YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lb-EPcZD7SI ).  Rossini's style with any of his libretto is passionate and fun http://www.emmedici.com/hobbies/musica/rossini/libretti/italiana0.htm, owing much to a tried and true formulae of material.  Although this may lend itself to scrutiny, let's not forget the wealth of material and accomplishments this 'skill' provided!

Intrigued to read more about Rossini, one would find out that, as he was a foodie, a gastronomique, who would create a series of dishes bearing his name.  Such a passion would lead to his death, but such richness in passion, food and music had to have been an exquisite time, while it lasted.  http://www.sfcv.org/article/top-10-alla-rossini-recipes.

Outside of all this, reading deeper into wikipedia, I found that his body was interred at the Florence church of San Croce.  Had I but known then!  But looking back is a skill for the weak, so I'll not dwell.  The beauty and grace of the church still lingers with me today...

Had my wife not been interested in getting a hand painted plate, from a little lean-to shop we happened to pass from another alleyway, I'm sure we'd have never entered the place.  [In point of fact, the alley we had just exited was of purpose to get a hand-carved Pinocchio toy from a famous shop that has been there for centuries.  I was dead set on getting a hand-carved wood toy, just stop me, but I have a very queer sense of what I need in life.  I told myself I was happy to see it with my eyes, but I was explicitly not going to pay a few hundred dollars for a piece of wood.  I am my father's son.]   So, as my wife settled on a smartly painted plate that had warm colored accents upon its face, (it was not for eating!  It was pointed out as mere decoration), the young lady mentioned that, if we had not gone to San Croce, that we needed to make sure to go.  Perhaps she read upon our faces that we were devout Catholics, as I read the same on hers?

Either way, the church was right at the far end of the small square that we found ourselves.  The white walls appeared a contrast of sorts, since it did seem to be much older than other immediate structures.  Florence is a bright city of earth toned buildings  By all means it is ancient to an American's mien, but, is well kept and could have easily been recent, if one did not have a sense of history.

Entering the church I don't know if I was too impressed.  Work was being done to restore recent flooding damage, including one that, with supreme sadness, ate away at the bottom of the Crucifix that sat, very largely, above the alter.  This was all taken in, but, as you get closer to the alter and the little niches that line it, I had to take a breath.  Giotto!  I was seeing actual, unmolestedly open access to Giotto.  His work is a particular interest of mine, having recently converted to the Faith, so seeing his work, as not expecting to, actually made me pause a bit.

The works lined the very wall, the textures have context in mind's eye, having, of course, only seen photos.  But, in person, the characters, the lines, the poses and the scale - it is pleasantly large - were a delight to the soul.  I felt immediate connection to his works, now that they grounded to my memory.  The stories sunk in of the subjects and I felt closer to the Biblical nature of the whole.

The question came, should I touch them?  Of course I shouldn't, but I could and I wrestled with myself to do it.  To say I did it, to remember I did it, to get a visceral question to my longing right here. 

I didn't do it.  I did the right thing, despite the fact they were...just...right...there.  Oh, well, it was a great moment in Florence, among many others.  To see Rossini's place (again, no idea at the time and overwhelmed by my favorite artist otherwise), I suppose I'll have to make a trip back.  I'll touch Rossini's funerary, but I'll wrestle with Giotto's art I'm sure. http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/museum_of_opera_s_croce.html

...364, because...

None have in this way found What otherwise construe as chaos The tempestuous undulate that can Only thinly disguise as coherency Grant solace in that wish given Herein 364 devotions writ In breaths and in storms Across the sphere, upon the very air Is art The visage that sears memorial E'en tho one calendar has elasped When many have passed in agonies The tempo of it triple time Fleet foretell in the trill canopy The mind's cacophony Spare naught that it should be embued Why cannot let it loose from me That I fall to break from thee And 364 from this continue 'gain To prove what true? No mimicry in one to another employ Honesty Reason Truth What are those things this day? What were they but fancies thrown away? What were they to me but to simple breathe.

...no word was spoken...

...we lay in your bed.  The rain came from low clouds, just outside those white-panes.  A quiet Saturday afternoon.  Other than a car, its tires making a sound as it slicked across the road outside, came by only twice in that few hours.

We said little; in fact, I can't remember saying anything at all.  We knew it wasn't going to last.  If anything were said, it would only belittle the feelings that were on the horizon, marked out in days.  The deepening thrum of what we never said to one another was there.  We didn't need to say a word.  The air was charged with it.

I lay on one side, you on the other.  At least one of our legs touched the floor.  We made no motion to each other.  We just wanted to be here, wordlessly in the grey light.

I put my left arm up, extending my fingers lethargically.  You did the same with your right, the backs of our hands playing.  The softness of that hand lightened me, gave me courage where I believed I needed none.  Our hands together, there, suspended against the canopy.  I could see your face, without even looking.  Your lips slightly separated like you do when you want to say something, but I know you'll say nothing.  Your eyes widen a bit in these moments.  They've pierced my memory and clearly outlined like the shadowed leaves of a tree against a twilight sky.  You hardly blink in this state (I mention it because I can't do the same).

Men are selfish creatures.  I don't want to think I want this: but I need this.  I feel as those that were led down a plank.  He would look between his bare feet (you would assume they took all personal effects) down at the black water, blacker than the sky, and that certain chill when you know it is done would cool the sweat along his spine.  Life is short, truly.

You want to feel like we're the only two who feel this way, who ever felt this way.  No man will ever employ this depth of emotions for you (I lie).  The infinite reaches of the universe would see my love writ, even it attenuated, to a whisper.  But there - clear and complete in its simple message.  Every molecule seems precious right now.

Our hands slowly clasp and fall to our sides.  You nestle your face into my neck and I can feel that your on the verge of crying - the heat and moisture are unmistakable.  If this could last forever.

I want you to tell me it'll be ok.  You can't even look at me as I leave.  Certainly, it won't be ok, and, by the time I leave and head home like a sleepwalker, I know it'll never be the same again.