What the Dog Did

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“It did what all ads are supposed to do: create an anxiety relievable by purchase.”  ~  David Foster Wallace

Either it is or it isn’t. When the sloppy inventory of chronic anxiety is active and applied, it is. It always is. This morning, here at 4 AM, the stars sit high and pale, yet in, with, whatever, my mind I can soar like one of those animated videos, up and out, past all of our cousin planets, all the way out, and see the scope of this tiny corner of the Universe, then back in and down, right smack dab into my perch before the iMac. Cat to my left, coffee pot just done with its gurgles, and I have but a few words to tap out before I rise, empty cup in hand, and take the three steps that must be taken if fresh coffee is to be had. Be right back, k? Now, I did it and the coffee is good. Gevilia, not Starbucks. But still French roast. Always that, if possible.

Now, an hour has passed. Clouds to the north seem to have something to do with the cooler temperatures that slipped in and down yesterday afternoon, late. I bid a brief thank you to the weather gods and came in here to embrace gravity and settle into my chair. A couple of beers, and too much news. I note that I’ve had a reader from Ireland the past couple of days. Hello, my friend. Your presence in my blog stats gives me a broader perspective on all of this scary news. Did I tell y’all that I have come to full realization of just how repulsive our president is? And McConnell? When he smiles (if you can call it that) his face reminds me, for some reason, of Hannibal Lector. But it is like all rubbery and stuff, and danged iffin them creepy eyes don’t show no signs of a soul in there. Ideal-driven politicians become machines at some point. But the guy’s a slasher too. Budgets, medical funding. He creeps in to the American dream and starts slicing away. Freddy Krueger? Or liver and chianti? Geez, I am drifting into a bad place, but that bad place is also creeping into me. We got us some big problems here. Sigh. I guess it’s time to come back on down to earth for the day. It’s a workday and I have the usual suspects nipping at my ankles. The big one, the guardian at the gate, has a distinct agoraphobic aura about it. I always gotta wrassle with fear, each and every morning, just to get out the door so’s I can git on down to work. The particular anxiety I deal with is a creepy crawly itchy field effect of a disorder. PTSD. Hidden wounds, subjective results that got into the neuro something or other parts of this body, and they feed off of muscle memory, and . . . and . . . sigh. My massage therapist knows about the PTSD, and we work on it together. She was at my neck the other day, and my emotions shifted into a really big space, and I got weepy-eyed and expressive in general. I always tell her when she hits a spot like that. She’s a single mom of two teenagers. The sigh of sympathy she shares at such times is a sweet balm indeed. Hey! Speaking of wounds and sympathy. Did I tell y’all about the gashes on my arms? I’ve got two, one on each forearm. It was the dog that did it. Both of them One week apart. First the right arm and then the left. Exuberance, coyote blood. She didn’t mean nothin by it. Puppy stuff from a 30 pound pooch. Not my dog, I don’t have a dog. The right arm is healing, as is the left. The right has faded some but it still looks all red and painful. The left is still flaming red and looks as if it might have needed stitches. It didn’t need then though. Neither arm did. The wounds are both superficial. Neither one hurts much. They both burn and itch throughout the wok day. I douse them frequently throughout the day with hand sanitizer. Now, here’s the fun part. Regardless of the low level of my actual discomfort the fawning sympathy from pretty women they evoke is indeed lovely and sweet. Just like the massage therapist. This is a healing thing, and the pagan in me, which is actually pretty much of an infusion, knows that it is the goddess Brighid who tends to the healing. She shines through, in all her archetypal glory, when these pretty women fawn upon with sympathy. Tis a healing force. A mom thing. Yeh, I play it a little but I am deeply aware of the big picture here, and my gratitude is a shiny thing as well. Hey, listen, I gotta get ready for work. Should be a busy day. Bueno bye* ( * – a Northern New Mexican colloquial phrase).

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

 

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