I interviewed with the incredibly inspiring Ming Ho about her career as a writer, caring for her mother, and her advice to anyone in a similar situation …
I am a cat in love with a goose
A goose. She’s the moose
Of the sky, the ice cube of the lake
She is the cherry on top of the
But I am a cat,
I cannot fly, let alone swim,
And what would the moose of the sky
Want with that?
I am no ordinary cat, it is true:
My name is Mr Macmillan Blue and
I’ve got 18 lives not 9 (I’ve already died 11 times).
Some other things it’s worth to mention:
I’ve never eaten a fish for supper and
I’ve not once killed a mouse; at age seven
I was labeled the strangest cat in London
Because I’ve never been able to purr a purr.
But what I know and all I know
Is I’m in love with her.
Oh my Lovely Lady Goose!
Whenever I go near,
She flaps her wings like an angry angel
And starts screeching in my ears.
I know that she’s just pleased to see me
But sometimes her squawking hurts my feelings,
I just want to spend one evening
With lovely Lady Goose.
My moose, my moose,
I, Macmillan Blue,
Am the most romantic of cats,
I have left presents for my keepers
Everywhere from the litter tray
To the kitchen table,
I have meowed
The finest songs of love to butterflies
And beetles. But when I saw my Lady Goose,
Why! I got pins and needles.
Alas, there is a divide between
My great moose of the sky and I:
For one, we are a different species,
For two, I cannot reach her over water,
For three, I cannot follow her on the wind.
Other cats tell me that I’m foolish,
That we’re too different — ‘Two worlds apart!’
To them I say, ‘I love her features,
And it is the distance
That lets me see her heart.’
I, Macmillan Blue,
The most romantic of cats,
Will stop at nothing.
None of god’s obstacles
Can stop me from reaching
My darling swan of fighting.
No tides or winds can break me,
There’s nothing in this universe could shake me
Off this path of love —
Except of course, my Lady Goose
And her great big wings and screeching.
The result of many hours shouting at a typewriter: Paula Goldstein’s amazing Scrapbook of America — it’s got chat from Buzz Aldrin, boobies, poetry, memories from the Civil Rights movement, skateboarders, New Yorkers, memory from Dolly Parton, a Kennedy …. basically everything that makes up modern America, including an FBI-themed investigation on the Darker Side of Disney from me.
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Well, you heard it here first, or maybe you read a science paper that told you first: tree hugging is good for you. Fact. In this article for Breathe I tell you why (vibrations and stuff …) and I also pick the best forests with the sexiest trees to hug.
I’m also happy to divulge that during a recent low point in my life, having written this article a couple of months previously, beneath the moon I hugged a tree in an olive grove. Yes, initially I felt stupid, and during, and afterwards. But it did make me feel better. So wotchagonnado?
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At sunset we walk to the highest points:
Promise Hill and Hampstead Heath
To watch the end of our day.
We are coming home from work
We are going for a jog
We are on a date
We are tourists searching for Tower Bridge
In the bay of buildings.
We are old and young and in turn
Young and old,
But all humans love the sun
And the highest parks of London
Are where we watch it burn.
At twilight when the mist settles in
Birds whistle more than men.
Men don’t whistle so much these days
I am wolf whistling this big city to bed
This city of red eyes at night.
Today I saved over something
that took me
two and a half hours to write
with a blank document —
it felt like breaking up with someone.