What J Plans to Do with Her Time, An Infinite System Working Within Finite Matter

J will sound a piano of some sort, even if it means starting from the beginning with scales, at some point when she is stable. Her ambition to do so, moreso signifies her wish for attentiveness, rather than a modest talent stalled out on a presupposed career track. The freight that such a task once carried- the compulsory musical training for the difficult, distracted preteen's left brain-is left behind. Such is the death of many things, while there is the excuse of others' hastening to dormancy.

All of J's animals are dead and buried in her backyard that is a terrestial ark along the margin of a Serviceberry stand. She remembers standing out under it ten years ago watching lacewing ants and the catbirds, with songs like distorted playback, descending on them. This is the story of her discarded poem about birdlime coupled with the discovery of Wordsworth's affectation when she read "This Lime Tree Bower, My Prison".

Underneath the same alleé, J has recently contemplated doing a little amateur archeology. By this she means digging up the cats she watched die, and swaddled in frayed bathtowels. J's mother reminds her that such a reunion, though not quite unlike sectioning the freeze-dried feral cat children with colored plasticene mortally frozen in their circulatory systems, would not serve the tragedy any more or call back their return. So, they may safely sleep undisturbed