“I’m not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.” ~ P. G. Wodehouse
“To the dumb question “Why me?” the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: why not?” ~ Christopher Hitchens
“Life calls the tune, we dance.” ~ John Galsworthy
This is my little dragon, guarding her treasure, which consists of coins in a Rubbermaid tote. No significance need be applied. It’s just a cat on a box. Cats of all sizes, on up to lions and tigers, love boxes. She’s laying on the bed now, sleeping. Rosie is getting old, and I’ve noticed her sleeping postures have changed, and perhaps the most noticeable thing about the change is that she seems to have developed a more intimate relationship with both gravity and comfort. She kind of sinks into the bed a tad. I admit to doing the same thing. Yesterday morning, and again today, my first motions brought pain. When my upper body gets all relaxed like that it’s humorously painful to get the contraption into shape for the waking world. I blame it all on the bicycle and the tarmac. Several times, when I hit the road I really hit it hard. And yes, I did just refer to my body as a contraption. In Celtic lore we are a body within our soul. From my soul’s point of view this mass of flesh and bones operates as a contraption, in a humorous regard. Of course. There’s a lot to be said about this Celtic inspired worldview but I ain’t goin’ there this morning. Not in any kind of depth. Suffice it to say that it is simply in my blood, in a matriarchal sort of way. Just outside of Baldwin, Illinois lies a tiny cemetery honoring my Preston lineage. We go back to before the Revolutionary War. The Preston name goes back to 12th century Ireland. That’s nearly 1000 years, give or take a few. No wonder I’m so tired, right? Yeh, right. Anyway . . . odd things can happen when you look to your soul. Listening, learning, with no assurance of anything at all. An ambiguous approach to life is sometimes the healthiest anyway – what, with the sometimes unbearable weight of definitions and such. There was the time, a few years back, that I was mysteriously inspired to approach and get to know a woman that I have known for over a decade. No, I don’t hear voices. But it was almost like a borderline command from my soul. I responded to that command quite spontaneously, and was moving before I knew it. I asked her out early on. But that didn’t happen. Details aside, I’m glad I listened. No – no romance. Let’s just say that my life is enriched for making the connection in the first place – simply because I listened to my soul. Yet I ramble. Seems I’m just riffing this morning. Riffing, ever so gently sucking down good coffee, and steeling myself for the workday. I’ll loosen up when I get there and get moving. The steel comes from the PTSD I live with every nanosecond of every friggin day. Before I turn on the car and drive “I just know” that I am going to get hurt out there in the world. Oh, no, no, no. Don’t start with me! It is not simply a bad, negative attitude. Keep your positive thinking to yourself, k? This is an artifact of the emotional response which comes from the mysterious physiological dictums of my muscles and endocrine system and stuff. I don’t resent it because I was there when it happened, back when I hit the tarmac one evening at sunset. Science does not yet know how PTSD works, but the symptoms are blatantly obvious – yet so many people just think we are simply crazy. Whatever. They just don’t know what they don’t know, epistemologically speaking. My illness is active 24/7, operating in the background. I trip over micro-triggers all day long. But sometimes the dark curtains part and sweet things happen. It’s the silent speech of the soul that does that. Listen.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.