Goodbye, Stella for Star

Friends, and strangers, who have offered our Stella help for no reason other than extraordinary kindness, thank you. Our hearts are broken, and yet held in place by so many good people. We have set up the PayPal below for any contributions to Stella's goodbye. To have the resources to keep her medicated, free of pain, surrounded by love, and respectfully handled after she "crosses" means the world to us. We feel such deep shame for promising her a good life, then falling short at the very end.

We have been encouraged to use PayPal because the service fee is nominal and funds arrive quickly, allowing an emergency fund to be in place already in case her decline occurs even faster. Please contact either Ray or I if you have any questions or concerns.

We understand these are brutal times for everyone--we truly appreciate the individual offers made to pay for everything in full, but couldn't sleep knowing we'd taken that much money out of the pockets of friends. Please do not feel any obligation. No donation is too small. If you are able to help Stella in her farewell, please know that funds will only go towards her medications, humane euthanasia (if it  comes to that) via the most wonderful vet, and cremation. If we happen to have an excess we will either return any unused funds, or, if you are comfortable, roll them into the penny jar for rescuing the next deaf/abused pittie, in honor of Stella. There's not much more I can offer the world anymore than written words and raising pups no one else wants. We would be honored to continue Stella's legacy in that way. Please specify your wishes and we will honor them. Do not feel uncomfortable being honest.

Our account for Stella is here:

If you've never heard Stella's story, "The Ninga" was rescued from a kill shelter one hour before she was scheduled to be euthanized. A "throwaway mama," she had been found in a parking lot in Queens tied to a light pole. She was malnourished, freezing, had one eye infected shut, and had very recently been separated from a litter of puppies. There were obvious indications of abuse. After being rescued, Stella was bounced from foster to foster for nearly a year, but no one wanted an adult pit bull with zero training and a disability. We met her after the rescue contacted us directly asking if we "would please consider saving" her. She was the color of old newspaper when we took her home. She has been my only companion during these long days of recovery when Ray is at work 10-14 hours, and comfort for Ray when I have been ill.

One time she got into the garbage--a "wolf proof" stainless steel tub with a latch lock on it--and pulled a discarded pint of Chinese sweet and sour sauce onto the ground. She took the lid off, ate some, rolled around in the rest, then glued herself to the kitchen floor when the corn syrup started to clot and then harden. It took three washes to get the sticky our of her fur. She was stained fluorescent pink for the next 9 days.

That's our girl.


**One Last Thing**

With Stellabella in our hearts we gently ask people to please consider adoption and deaf, blind, or other special needs pets. Abandoned or surrendered pets are already labeled "trash." Special needs animals are seen as "broken" trash. Our experience with Stella indicates that she knowingly traded hearing and opted for heightened empathy, an ability to connect with anyone, and the kind of maniacal intelligence that allows a 2-year-old dog to figure out how to open the refrigerator. Twice:

On Brutal, Manic, Terrifying Criticism (Can anyone really hate trumpets?)

I've written a little about criticism here in the past. I've experienced kidney punch criticism about my writing, looks, folk singing, and social views. I've definitely cried about it, and have even been paid to flip the table and provide criticism. But this clip documents a critical "Perfect Storm," a cloud of hot air, negative feedback, rage, and bizarre neurosis whirling like typhoon from the mouth of one sad NYU film student. He is explosive. Hypnotic. A mix between John Simon, Ann Coulter, and The Penguin.

If you missed this one, it features a man driven to literal madness by the thoughtless practicing of a trumpet player in a public alcove. It's hilariously heartbreaking, because even as you choose which man to side with, there's no getting around how broken the critic has to feel inside in order to unleash that kind of seething spittle.

For those of you slammed and critiqued in the past: see? It happens to everyone! To aspiring critics: this. is. not. how. to. do. it.






At the end of the day, aren't we all looking for some acknowledgement that we stood near Bob Dylan that one time?

Of Sausage and Unborn Children

We moved recently. That meant, among other things, coming to terms with how vile I am, based on the ruthless dog hair and urban dust netherworld I apparently allowed to flourish under the bed for three years. It also unearthed a long-since forgotten tin box, with bits of writings dating as far back as 2005 written on scraps of paper of all sizes. Some of it is really bad. Like, burn it bad. Some bits I love for their imperfections and clumsiness.

This was one of them.

Untitled, 2010

I've been up and down the sheets
Made and unmade those beds of roses
and worn the thorns as buttons
while sticking thin fishbone pins into voodoo lovers

I've tied every love letter ever with twine
And set them on fire in a secret place
it took three days to reach on foot

One time I held two stagehands hostage until
they turned the spotlights on me
So I could perform the rain dance to call
wet love down from the skies

But now I want one bed
One bed and two pillows
One bed and two pillows for two bodies
A place to cook you dinner
and a Cajun who can teach me to season sausage
properly

I want to hear my children
laugh from inside your daydreams

I've been away a long time.

Too long.

There are several fascinating reasons why. There are even more totally mundane reason why.

Who cares why? I'm back. Me and the pooch are in this together with you.

I missed your words.

xo,
The Prodigal Blogger

Bread Basket-case

Bread Basket-Case

A piece of cornbread
brought her down.

She had been doing well enough,
doing things like
combing her hair,
brushing her teeth,
making the oversized sleigh bed that rested
at the center of her room--
those things that are hardest to do
when nursing
another's leaving.

She had been doing even better
with the necessary rituals,
like taking down the 5x7s
of them laughing
at the wedding of another
matched set
of friends,
or learning to ride the subway
through the lump in her throat that boarded
the train at the stop they used to meet at
after their work days ended.

She took his name out of her mouth
and placed it in a drawer
close to the kitchen sink,
where she could come to fetch it
once it was less likely
to cut her gums and tongue.

But the cornbread was too much.
His favorite, presented in a tiny basket
at a dinner party
flanked by bricks of foil-wrapped butter,
sucking the air from the room,
forcing her to recall
his mouth
his fingers
his satisfied humming
his long-held preference
for baked goods
with actual kernels
folded into the batter.

A single cubic slice
of cornmeal and hot butter
brought him back into the room
like some dark ancient voodoo,
proving there could be
no escape
or going back to the world
that had been
before he came,
and went.

Black magic
in a bread basket.

And so she did the only thing
the cursed can do in such situations:
She ate her heart out.
Fingers grasping at every square,
seeking out and devouring
every crumb of memory
stuffing it down
and swallowing away
each and every piece
unprettily and unrepentant  
until butter glossed her lips,
and her breath was hot and audible,
and her dining partners shifted
uncomfortably
in their seats.

And just like that,
he was gone again.
She dabbed the corners of her mouth
daintily with a napkin.

Later a young waiter
well-meaning and well-trained
passed by their table
with another steaming basket
cradled in his curved palm.
More bits of past swathed
in warmed white linen.
The young man extend one long arm
leaning down to land it
in the empty space between her wine glass
and the table's glowing candles.

This time she did nothing
except smile at her friends
with something close to victory
perched on the top of her nose.
She calmly rested a palm across
her slightly distended stomach.
It is hard to be eaten up inside
when one is already stuffed full.

Short and Sweet: Sweet and Sour

Another bit of writing found scrawled on a napkin that made its way back from New Orleans to New York:

bright spot

I'll never forget the morning
we discovered the little lemon
A little piece of summer
fallen on the pavement
You found the sun
hiding under pruned branches
And gently broke the rind with a thumbnail
turning the air bright
Then wrapped five fingers and a thumb around it
and carried it home.

You brought the sun with us.

Even on cloudy days
it is a glowing spot
on the landscape of a year
You
Your little lemon
the sweetness of you both--
I taste it when the days break bright,
that little pinch of sugar
spooned over each sour note
that dared follow us home.

To My Parents on Their 34th Wedding Anniversary: The Buccaneers of Long Beach Island

The REAL Jersey Shore. Yeah.

Narrative poemness for my parents, gifted on the occasion of their 34th wedding anniversary.

"To the Buccaneers of Long Beach Island: The Day the Treasure Was Found"

it was just after lunch when we found the map.

the clan was assembled in the sand as always:

sarah's lips stained red from cherry ice, a popsicle herself, 

tiny and poised on paired stick legs;

cousins, browned like sausages in the sun,

digging holes with neon plastic buckets;

mom, smile lines burned into the crooks of her eyes,

holding out chilled wet grapes.

there was a hermit crab captive in my hand

all wet, small, flailing legs--

a slimed almond in its shell

using tickle as torture.

we were digging near the water, 

dad and i and a few of the others,

he waist-deep and handsome in a wet hole,

the pile of sand nearby as tall as i;

and bill, with his slick green beer bottle illegally in hand, towering above it all.

then the map appeared,

conjured from the end of the old iron shovel, or it seemed.

mom was the one who pointed it out,

it teetering suddenly on the top of the pile as if dropped from the sky--

bill’s smile hidden behind ever other adult. 

i dropped the crab.

the cousins let me unwind the scroll,

coarse and wet and bound with twine,

breaded with grains of damp stone and singed black at the edges--

the oldest didn't wait for the small ones.

we raced, speedo-ed gazelle on baked plains, tracing black ink to the first stop:

a clue on a chipped shell by the grass!

then another stampede to the ancient gazebo

for the note taped to weathered wood seats.

laura released the paper with shaking fingers.

kyle, the youngest, cried--we understood. 

the excitement was too much to bear.

the entire beach was watching.

we found the X by the fence near the dunes,

where the bound plywood met the rise of sand in its drunk, erratic path, 

a barrier to the barrier to the land. 

"dig!" we cried to my father. "dig!"

and he did,

meaty shoulders driving the blade until it landed with a thud

on something that wasn't sand.

bill helped him heave the structure up and everyone gasped when they should,

an ebb of sound cresting through the modest crowd like a wave.

a small plane went by then, 

pulling an airborne restaurant ad that went wholly ignored,

efforts outdone by our bounty. 

it was a chest of bleached wood

pale and dry and entirely unmarred,

exactly as we'd seen in books,

and fastened shut with cheap rope.

one of the men loosed the top, then let us lift the lid.

our famously unsilenecable brood fell silent.

for a moment.

then the cries of glee broke free 

and naked arms and legs splayed every which way,

the tallest going so far as to pull the youngest forward for a fair view.

we were family, after all.

chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil,

stacked to the brim and glinting in the sun.

all of us--

parents, offspring, in betweens--

glinting in return,

kings and queens of the day.