Day Eight & Lens-Artists PC: Happy K9, bestia!

What a doubly happy day! My dog turns 9 and my poem is featured today. All my egos rejoice in the new poem.

I was so happy and proud to see that today I’m the featured participant of this year’s NaPoWriMo. My yesterday’s door poem brought me this honour. Thank you most kindly!

Today is a new day and all my egos wanted out to celebrate.

Prompt 8: “Today’s prompt asks you to name your alter-ego, and then describe him/her in detail. Then write in your alter-ego’s voice.” 

Alter egos

Go with your first thought, 
they say.
Go with the flow.
Okay.

I’m such an ego
that I don’t have one alter but many. 
They don’t have a voice.
They pray at my altar.

I’m such an ego that I don’t give names,
not even genders at times. 
Each comes with its own sound.  
It helps track them down. 

The cleaning lady (Serbian turbo folk) –  
she is a handful.
She is the one I actively suppress. 
We don’t need her negativity on mess.

The hippie flower child (“Woodstock”)
in a long colourful skirt
may be my favourite. 
But she doesn’t write. She dreams. She’s alert. 

The mosh pit slammer (speed metal)
is a wild card.
Once that one prevails, 
the rest run and I hide.

The groovy poet (70’s funk)
– such style without vanity – 
lives in New York City
on the brink of fame and insanity.

The one that puts alter in my ego
(Wet Leg and Nick Cave)
feels mean, fake and vain.
My vein streams main.

The stats nerd (live basketball game),
who lives behind two screens
on snacks and beer, 
does not play but counts wins.

The little French (mais oui, chansons)
is me just a little.
Nothing about me is petit.
But she insists.

The belly dancer (African sounds)
has the best camouflage. 
When she comes out,
astonishment mounts.

The ghetto kid (hard core rap)
is far from home
and kept in check.
For now.

I suppose I should let them out
to play a little then and now
but that would be drama.
Especially that cleaner mama.

---

In photos something that I do every year for our bestia’s birthday: I post one photo from each month of the past year. How lucky that this week it’s John’s birthday and he set birthday as the theme for Lens-Artists photo challenge. You can find all the previous bestia’s birthday posts in the memories at the end of this post.

April was still pandemic here in Tuscany but then it opened up and in July I was able to return to my Slovenia of origin and stay there until August. Then Crystal and Pedro from Oregon flew in and we drove to Slovenia again, just because it’s there. The September photo was taken by Crystal, with thanks. The rest of the year I spent in Tuscany where I am still, hoping for a change of scenery soon.

Bestia was with me throughout the year as is his habit. Here are twelve selected moments. Happy birthday, bestia! You are nine which is probably more than me by now. But who is counting… As long as we are healthy and smiling. To many more years together!

• 

  April: Spring fatigue.

• 

  May: Competing for his attention.

• 

  June: My regular dog walk.

• 

  July: With uncle to Piran.

• 

  August: With father in his Maribor.

• 

  September: Ready for a new day with visitors. Photo: Crystal Trulove

• 

  October: My last trip to somewhere new. Punta Ala.

• 

  November with a rainbow.

• 

  December: The last photo of the year. Happy 2022!

• 

  January: Mingling with the cat of amore’s father in Rome.

• 

  February: Trying to dress him up as Little Red Riding Hood for the Carnival. I released him soon after, promise!

• 

  March: Welcome, spring!

For Lens-Artists Photo Challenge, hosted by John at Journeys with Johnbo: They say it’s your birthday…

The last day in my NaPoWriMo history

2018: The best kind of magic

Amore mentions
a Maremma sheepdog,
a huge white beast.

But that is only one half
of your mother’s gene pool.
The father was a bastard
because he ran away,
amore says.

She doesn’t mind either way.
You are coming
and whatever comes
she knows they will love you.

And then amore brings you
through the gate and sets you down.

(Read all.)

2019: K9

“Can I?” Nein,  
you cannot.

“Cats nine, how many lives have I?”
Let’s not find out.

My best friend
is my generation:

six dog years  
is 40 to 50 in human. 
(Read on.) 

2020: To my best friend (cento)

Words bounce.
Words, if you let them,
will do what they want to do
and what they have to do.

Philosophers say
man forms himself in dialogue.
I talk to you
as if you’re really there.

“I am so stupidly happy!
Adventure time!
And you bought me an ice cream,
and then we saw the UFO!” 
(Read all.)

2021: Loverman (dead man's monologue)

Messy business, both, loving and killing.
Why can’t we just get along? Really,
each man kills the thing he loves?

I’m tired of telling a silly, albeit
convincing story each time I hear:
“Who shall I say is calling?”

And now the time has come
and I’m deader than my deadest lover:
Each man may kill the thing he loves,
so why it is I who is calling? 
(Read all and click for more cemetery doors.)

This day in my blogging history

• 

  2014: On pinkish paper, by Rade Šerbedžija

  i’m watching you now
  you are slightly foreign
  yet perfectly mine
  and i’m watching
  where the fingers on your hand
  swiftly morph into mine (Read on.)

• 

  2014: Today is the first birthday of our bestia, animale, cannellone, Fonzie Fonsini. The photo is from the moment amore brought him home in 2013.

• 

  2015: Happy second birthday, bestia! No, you don’t look like a girl here!

• 

  2016: Three years of bestia. This is how I love him the most.

• 

  2017: Happy 4th, bestia! I’m coming! He has learnt that it pays off to do what I say.

• 

  2021: One half of my world turns 8! (For bestia’s 5th, 6th and 7th birthday see above where the poems are)

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