Matthew Gallaway

Mourning Becomes Elektra (R.I.P.)

On Wednesday afternoon, November 24, 2021, after living with us for over twelve years, Elektra died at home, surrounded by everyone she knew and loved, and with the assistance of two shots from the vet. Her death was not unexpected but like so many deaths, it was incomprehensible. One second she was with us and the next she was gone. 

The past five or six months were tough for her (and us). At the beginning of the summer, she seemed fine, although the vet warned us at an annual checkup that her kidneys were shrinking, an indicator of chronic kidney disease. In July, we noticed a discharge from her ear, which turned out to be caused by an inoperable tumor -- likely malignant -- that had blocked her ear canal. Around the same time, she began losing weight, another symptom of kidney failure (and cancer). We gave her an appetite stimulant, which initially helped: she returned to eight pounds for maybe a month or two, but by September, she had slipped closer to seven. Earlier this month, we started giving her subcutaneous fluids, but the tumor was interfering with her balance and she was having trouble walking. She carried her head at an angle. The left side of her face became paralyzed, leaving her unable to eat. By the end, she weighed hardly anything at all.  

Elektra in September, resting in the catnip and the oregano. 

We -- meaning Stephen and I and our other two cats, Zephyr and Clio -- spent a lot of time with each other beginning in March of 2020, when we entered a lockdown from which I, at least, have barely emerged. We were a pod of house cats, basically. Since August, when Stephen went back to work (which unlike me he can't do remotely), the balance has shifted even more toward the feline side of the equation. It's been a relatively privileged and peaceful way to live, one that has made me ask myself why I would ever want to go back to 'normal' if it means exposing myself more than necessary to a society that seems increasingly fractured, self-destructive, and dangerous. Lately I’ve found myself agreeing with those who maintain that the truest expression of homosexuality is to reject the prevailing social order. 

But that’s a question I’ll have to answer without Elektra. About a month ago, I was shocked to realize that we had reached the point where, as far as Elektra was concerned, death had moved out of abstraction and into a daily reality. Soon, Elektra would not be here. (One of the ways I tried to cope with this transition was to write a song for her.) While the grief I felt about losing Elektra was palpable -- at any given moment, my throat constricted and my eyes tightened as tears welled and sometimes spilled -- I also realized that this grief was part of a larger, more amorphous grief I felt about so many things at this juncture of 2021. Some of it is cultural and political -- related to the things our country has done and not done -- and some of it is personal, related to some of the things I have done and not done.

On our last afternoon together, as Elektra rested next to me on the bed, I felt like we were on a life raft, drifting on an ocean of grief. But I wanted to remember these hours; how, even with one eye shut and her once-plush coat rough and begraggled, she still looked at me with a kind of tender scrutiny and determination; or how, when she was stretched out on her heating pad and I gently petted her side, she flexed her paw a few times, the way cats do when something feels good; and how she never lost her dignity, which is something I hope to say when my last afternoon arrives.  

Time -- as it had done for the past two years -- seemed to move very quickly, which I attributed to a number of factors: the pandemic; the way global warming has pushed the beginning of fall back a few months; me being old enough to see death on the horizon and, as a gay person without children in a neoliberal/market-driven society, to worry about its practical dimensions. 

But as these different forms of grief opened up in me, it was also a relief, or at least a distraction, to be Elektra's caretaker. We did what we could to keep Elektra comfortable. We cleaned out her ear every night; we gave her medication and fluids; in the final week, we carried her up and down the stairs; we gave her a heating pad to stay warm. She had moments of frustration and confusion, but I don't think she was ever in pain.

The other cats were considerate and perhaps compassionate, staying close to Elektra as the days and finally hours dwindled away.  

Stephen met Elektra on May 12, 2009, when she appeared on the top of one of our garden walls. At the time, Stephen was having lunch with a friend, and Elektra meowed at them for something to eat. Unlike most of the strays we encounter in the backyard, Elektra was not feral. She also looked miserable. Initially we planned to foster her, but after spending time with her, we brought her home. 

Stephen named her Elektra. We learned that she had been chipped, but that her previous owner claimed to have returned her to a shelter; how she ended up on our block will always be a mystery. Her exact age was also a mystery. She might have have been three or four years old, or she might have been three or four centuries old. 

We were immediately impressed by Elektra's intelligence, which (with apologies to our other cats) seemed to put her on a different scale. 

Elektra wasn't exactly aloof or antisocial (except perhaps philosophically, in the manner of many cats), but she managed to convey to the boys (all four of us) that she sometimes needed her space, and that we would be well advised to listen when she spoke. There was something maternal about her; she seemed serious about life, not one to engage in childish games or petty fights. Occasionally, we could cajole Elektra into a group activity, such as this training session for synchronized napping with Dante and Zephyr. We were all younger then; we joked around a lot. Elektra indulged us.

But this picture is a more accurate depiction of the hierarchy. At that time, we lived in an apartment with views of the George Washington Bridge and the flocks of pigeons that perched on the ledges and circled the sky. Like everyone else, Elektra spent a lot of time looking out the windows.

Elektra's brand of contemplative, no-bullshit energy made her a minor celebrity on my Tumblr, where she starred in countless post-lolcat/#CLOTU* memes, some of which I’ve reproduced below. 

*Cat Ladies of Tumblr Unite

New Year's Resolution for 2010. 

Iconography of #caturday. 

It felt strange revisiting these images, which seemed to resonate with the spirit of a time when the internet was a lot more fun than it is now. I don’t want to sound too nostalgic: even as we lived through it, we understood that this era of the internet -- the paleoblogolithic -- was about to be swallowed by social media. (Another source of grief.) 

Elektra was also on hand to celebrate the arrival of my debut novel and my literary career, which as foreshadowed in this photograph was soon delivered into a kind of purgatory or coma from which I hope one day to arise. Or not: things that once seemed important to me have shifted with the passage of time. 

When in early 2011 we moved into our house, Elektra did not hesitate to ascend to the role of queen for this new territory. But as regal as she could be, she was never haughty. She was the top mouser of our three cats. One November, we noticed signs of mice in the pantry off the garden; within hours of installing Elektra on site (normally she couldn't access this part of the house), she had caught the culprits (who were released into an abandoned lot on the block). That said, she did prefer a pristine litter box; as soon as I cleaned it out, which I did many times a day, she could be counted on to use it. 

"I will catch any mouse, no questions asked. In return, you will provide a clean litter box and white roses." -- Elektra, 2012

Elektra's kingdom extended into the garden, where she was equally industrious. 

She patrolled the grounds. 

She was serious about her work. 

When Clio arrived in 2015, Elektra enlisted her in the long-running battle against flying snakes. 

With Zephyr, Elektra and Clio also started an indie-rock band. 

I will always think of Elektra when I look at this spot in the garden. 

It's going to be hard not to have her here, guiding and advising us on all matters, practical and spiritual. But I will never forget her. She will always be an inspiration. 

On our last night together, I rested my hand on her side. As I drifted in and out of sleep, it seemed that she was hovering, somehow a part of me and just beyond reach, a deity in whom I could now believe. 

Elektra: ??? -- November 24, 2021. If there's Another Side, we will see you there. 

Fountain Maintenance

This morning was sunny and warm (for November), which was enough to entice me outside. Many years ago, we bought a fountain, which every spring must be filled with water and every fall drained of water. Today, after many weeks of procrastinating, I was hoping to complete the latter. 

It's one of those chores I dread a little bit more with each passing year because the fountain must be disassembled into two parts, each of which is made of concrete and weighs approximately two thousands pounds. 

Lately, while recovering from a knee injury, I've started working out with elastic bands, which I like to think has been helping my upper-body strength. But I'm not sure it made much of a difference when I picked up the tower of the fountain, which was as excruciatingly heavy as I remembered. But it didn't seem *more* heavy, so maybe my strength work was paying off. In either case, I only had to move it a few feet, which I managed to do without dropping it on my feet or the ferns :) 

I reached into the cold water and dislodged the pump, which allowed the water to drain.

Then I picked up the tower and repositioned it on the base of the fountain. 

The concrete weighed a lot, but it looked good. Like the rest of the garden, it had weathered nicely over the years, which made me look forward to spring. 

Notes on the Autumn Garden

It got cold enough this week to turn the heat, which along with the birch leaves covering the brick path makes it feel like fall. 

The Japanese maple turned red overnight. 

And the Boston Ivy -- a work in progress -- turned a *bit* more red. 

We might have tried to keep the heat off a bit longer, but it starts to feel pretty cold in the house when the outside temps don't get above the low fifties. We also didn't want the cats to be shivering all day. Clio's still recovering from dental surgery, which is going to take some time. She's on a multi-day painkiller but seems alert. The biggest problem is that Zephyr doesn't quite recognize her, which means she's dealing with a sore mouth and a hostile cat she's known for years. 

Here's Zephyr looking down the stairs with suspicion at the strange cat sitting in the ferns. Why do cats not recognize each other? Apparently it has something to do with smell; it's one of the things about that makes them seem so foreign to each other after they've been separated for even a short period of time (or by a window). They make even the most basic interactions very complicated. (Unlike humans, who never complicate anything lol.) 

Mostly we wanted to keep the heat on for Elektra, who in addition to chronic kidney disease is battling an untreatable polyp, which started in her ear and is now affecting her left eye and mouth. These are both conditions that commonly afflict older cats. 

One of the hardest things about adopting animals is knowing that one day you're going to watch them die, and I fear we've reached that stage with Elektra. Over the past few months, she's been losing weight and her balance is precarious because of her ear. But she seemed mostly comfortable, going through her usual routines with feline diligence. But yesterday she seemed to be in a new kind of distress -- she was agitated and trying to drink out of the bathtub faucet -- which our vet attributed to dehydration. This wasn't unexpected (we went through a similar process with Dante a few years ago) and we still had the supplies (except for the actual bag of liquid).  

We started giving her subcutaneous fluids and she already seems much calmer. It's hard to say how long she'll last. Dante only made it a few months once he reached this stage, but I have friends whose cats have gone a year or two once they start taking fluids, which almost seems like enough time to pretend that it's not really an end. 

Right now, she's sleeping, and it's a bright day in -- or at least above -- the garden. 

 

The Secret To Great Online Communities

Today Clio (pictured above) went to the vet to have her teeth cleaned. Unfortunately, several of her back teeth will also have to be removed, which is not uncommon in cats, although not all of them have teeth problems. My theory is that cats who were strays tend to have worse teeth than their house-born counterparts. 

With Clio gone, Elektra and Zephyr took advantage of the sun. Like Clio, Elektra spent time on the streets and had to have several teeth pulled, whereas Zephyr, who was born in an apartment (his mother was a stray), did not. More proof that so much of our lives are a result of contingencies beyond our control. (Veiled argument for universal health care, among other things.) 

This morning I looked out the window, where I saw the sun illuminating the trees on the street. Like stray cats, street trees also have a tough life, but some of them manage to scrape by. 

I didn't bother to check, but I'm pretty sure that I started blogging in November of 2007, which means I've been doing it for forty million years. It's hard not to feel nostalgia for the early days, before social media destroyed blogging. Today I received a newsletter from the New York Times called 'The Secret to Great Online Communities.' It's all about a FB group called Vaccine Talk :( which doesn't seem like a place I would ever would describe as 'great.' To me the best online communities were found in pre-Twitter blogosphere and, to some extent, on Tumblr before it was sold and corporatized. Lately I've been thinking about why these communities were so great -- meaning why was it possible to meet and enjoy people -- and I think the answer, which was not discussed at all in the NYT newsletter, is that there was NO advertising in much of the early internet. 

It's an idea that makes me think about how the commercial (advertising-driven) nature of the internet today is -- or was -- a choice, and how, if we were stronger, we could reserve some significant portion of the internet for non-branded communities and communication. Don't ask me for details, but I'm sure we could do it. I'll start: Here's a columnar oak tree whose leaves are turning brown and red. And yellow, which is the least exciting fall color. 

You can feel comfortable reading this with the knowledge that nobody is trying to track your eye movements or sell you anything. 

 

The Garden (November 12, 2021)

This morning it rained hard, which meant that I didn't take the cats out for a walk. Instead, through the window, we watched the wind whip the trees back and forth. It felt good to be inside. 

Recently some mourning doves took up residence in the back yard and I saw a few of them perched on a branch of the birch tree. They didn't seem to mind the weather. 

According to the internet, they are also known as 'rain doves.' 

 

 

DeathCulture@Sea (Free Reign)

This afternoon I went for a short walk on a path to the High Bridge, which is not too far from where I live in Washington Heights. The path was mostly empty except for the mopeds and scooters (not pictured) that were racing back and forth to the Bronx. 

I'm having a hard time believing that it's already November. A few weeks ago I composed a tweet that said, 'I was writing a work email in which I referenced November 2020 and had to resist the urge to add a parenthetical that said ten million years ago.' I didn't post it, even though it made me smile when I found it in my drafts. More and more I seem to be following the first rule of Twitter, which is 'never tweet.' 

I've always admired this succulent, which grows on the rocks along the path. A few years ago, I tried to transplant a few strands in our garden and it didn't take. 

In June, the sun was setting at 9:00, and now it sets at 4:30. From what I gather, many people are disturbed by this arrangement, but I like the sense of change. (It's also pretty miraculous when you think about the earth spinning and tilting.) Having more night hours makes me feel 'productive,' like I have enough time to watch television and record a song, like this one, which is brand new :) 

Link. 

I'll be sad when the leaves are gone, but it won't be too long until they've back again. 

Blanket Season

Somehow, we made it to November, which is known for its sparse but beautiful light. 

Working from home means I spend more time noticing the light than I would in an office. 

Another nice thing about November is that it's blanket season. Every July and August, I see the blankets on in the closet and I wonder if it will ever be cold enough to use them again. 

Nobody told the tomato plant that it's November, however.  

It's hard to imagine the snow. 

 

Pining for Shaded Rocky Cliffs and Stream Banks

The last plant to bloom in our garden is the toad lily, which has monstrous little purple flowers that are good for Halloween.  According to Wikipedia, the toad lily -- also known as the hairy toad lily -- is native to Japan, where it can be found 'growing on shaded rocky cliffs and stream banks.'

Sometimes I wonder if the plants in our garden are disappointed when they realize that they've ended up in a trough at the back of an urban garden, thousands of miles from their native habitat. Some of them are probably aghast, but maybe others don't mind. What choice do they have? It's probably similar to how many of us about living in 2021. 

A few years ago, we planted Boston ivy (Parthenocissus tricuspidata 'Fenway Park') with the hope that once established, the plant would each fall transform a bland corner of the garden into a vibrant wall of red. This year, a few (as in two or three) leaves turned red, but most skipped from the plant's trademark chartreuse (which is very pretty) to yellow and brown, which means we'll have to keep hoping. 

I've been reading a lot about compromise in the context of the infrastructure bill, which is getting whittled away in negotiations (specifically the less atrocious one that progressives are working to get passed with the more atrocious one for fossil fuel and highways). I understand that compromise is inevitable -- as the President keeps saying 'nobody gets everything they want' etc. -- but I'm suspicious of a process that never seems to do much but maintain the status quo (or make it worse). I recently saw something in the New York Times about how Greta Thunberg has 'given up on politicians.' I didn't click through, but I did think 'same.' 

I'm reading a book called Remaking Radicalism: A Grassroots Documentary Reader of the United States, 1973-2001, which documents progressive and radical organizing efforts during the rise of neoliberalism. So far I'm only done with the first part -- 'Feminist and Queer Flashpoints' -- and it's inspiring to read the words of those who were fighting against sexism, racism, and homophobia as both a principle of equality and as a means to overturn policies that unfairly punished people. The book creates a 'usable history' that feels important given how the internet, despite its archival potential, seems to obliterate anything that isn't unfolding in real time, racking up clicks and likes. But it's also dismaying to be reminded of the fact that many of the demands being made today -- for universal health care, for environmental justice, for defunding the police, for ending the carceral state, and many more -- are the same ones that were being made fifty years ago, when radical change not only seemed possible, but inevitable.  

We recently watched Gunda, which is a documentary about a mother pig and her piglets (and some other farm animals). In some ways, it seems like the pigs have a decent life; they wander around in an outdoor enclosure on a farm; the piglets play with each other; the mother keeps them in line. [SPOILER ALERT] But then at the end the piglets are herded into a truck and driven away -- presumably to be slaughtered -- leaving the mother in a state of apparent agitation as she walks around the pen sniffing and pawing at things, breathing heavily. 

One thing about October is that unusually warm days -- 'global warming days' -- are quite pleasant. We took the cats out to the garden in the attempt to make up for subjecting them to Gunda.  

'I'm giving up on humans.' -- Elektra 

The yellow and brown leaf reminded us that the old year was coming to an end, and that a new one was on the way. 

 

Shade Plants in the Forgotten Garden

I was exchanging messages with a friend who expressed relief that, unlike last fall, he was now able to return to the office for several days a week. Last year, he explained, he found it too depressing to stay home all day and finish work in the dark. I agreed with him because I understood what he was saying in theory, but if given the choice (which I have been fortunate enough to be given), I would still opt at this juncture to work from home, even or especially as the daylight hours wane. I ask myself the following questions: What is happening in the city? And do I need to see it? Maybe, I think, but then again, maybe later, after we've removed approximately 500,000 cars and dirt bikes from the streets. 

Stephen has returned to his job, which means that, most days, it's me and the cats. We all have our routines but we meet up when we take breaks. Everyone likes to walk through the garden, even though it often feels a bit dreary and forgotten at this time of year, like the morning after a big party. But this fall, the garden has more color than it has in the past, thanks in part to a cold-hardy foxglove with sunburst flowers (pictured above) that Stephen discovered at one of the non-corporate nurseries we like to buy from. After lunch, the cats like to sit on the deck next to the catnip. Like me, they seem exhausted by the thought of everything that's happening and not happening in the outside world. 

The catnip was another successful experiment this year. I have childhood memories of seeing cats go a little berserk on catnip, but it didn't have such a strong effect on our cats. They seemed to enjoy rubbing against it or taking small bites, but it didn't change anyone's personality. It just seemed to relax them. Watching them, I wondered: is there catnip for people :)

For the rest of the day, everyone returned to work, which for the cats means sleeping, or thinking about sleeping. 

I've been trying to limit my intake of daily news, which along with my non-commute has given me more time to spend listening to and playing music. I've been working on my acoustic-guitar skills. I learned on an acoustic guitar but after mastering the basics never spent too much time with it. Lately I've been teaching myself how to flatpick, which I've discovered is a good lockdown activity for me. It's nice to switch between two or three open chords as you pick out a base line with your thumb (I prefer not to use a pick) and strum the rest of the strings with your fingers. Time evaporates in the most pleasant way. I've been using a downstroke with the backs of my fingers but have recently learned that a true 'Carter scratch' (made famous by Maybelle Carter) uses only the index finger, which makes and an up-and-down 'scratch.' I'm excited to tackle this technique next. I recorded a song showcasing my new skills, which ended up sounding (to my ear anyway) a little bit like the Meat Puppets.  

Link. 

The big news this fall is really the hardy begonia. After having some luck with one that a friend of ours gave to us a few years ago, we've added many more. These plants are the proverbial late bloomers. They don't even come out of the ground until June, but now they've hit their stride, with big, paddle-shaped leaves (with scary red veins -- perfect for Halloween!) and flowers that come in white and pink. They also have beautiful/creepy shark-fin seed pods, which again would make an excellent Halloween costume for anyone who partakes. "What are you supposed to be?" "You couldn't tell? Wtf. I'm a hardy begonia seed pod." "Oh, right -- scary!"  

Our grape vine, which is supporting this hardy begonia, is now over twenty years old, which I guess means that I'm over twenty years old, too :(

Overall, I recommend the hardy begonia for the autumn garden because it looks like a MONSTER. (But a friendly monster.)

The autumn sun is mostly blocked by the neighboring buildings, but it breaks through for a few minutes every afternoon. 

Feeling nostalgic, I took a picture and pretended it was 2009, when I was in love with the internet.

In 2021, the light always makes me think we have another chance, but almost as soon as the thought appears, the light is gone. 

 

Our Most Beautiful Light: My Mother's Billerica

A few weeks ago, to celebrate my mother's 90th birthday -- which is also on September 11 and more fun to think about! -- my older sister and I took her to her hometown of North Billerica, Massachusetts. In some ways, it was like revisiting a lost world, one where my mother had grown up getting milk from a neighbor's cow and where she and her sisters had walked everywhere because their family didn't own a car. For me, it was especially interesting to hear her talk about what it was like growing up; not only the fun stuff she did with her sisters, but also the challenges of dealing with a depressive father and a mother who didn't quite fit in with her husband's family (she was from Canada, he was born and raised in Billerica), which instilled in my mother a desire to leave -- or escape -- that I found very familiar and relevant to the way I (and probably a lot of others) think about childhood. I recorded much of the trip -- along with some observations -- and edited the audio down into my first -- and possibly last :) -- podcast, which you can listen to below. 

Here's a link if you can't see the banner, and below are some pix. 

The Faulkner Mill. (Or maybe it's the Talbot -- I'm not sure!) 

The house on Mason Avenue in Garden City (a neighborhood in North Billerica that was originally built for union workers by the B&M Railroad) where my mother was born. 

Ninety years ago, my mother was a baby in the corner apartment of this house. 

Here she is at a house on Treble Cove Road, where she lived as a teenager (again, in an apartment on the side). 

My mother and her sister Linda at the North Billerica train station. 

The Middlesex Canal, where they used to go swimming and ice skating.