Dec. 2nd
Well... I'm back... eight months later. Really? Eight months? Almost to the day. April 1st - Dec. 2nd. Longer since I completed "Marriage Autopsy" (I just reread it. Though an emotionally contrived bit of caustic-matter-splattered, pulp -- I find it quite humorous and brutally honest. With some interesting technical acrobatics and erudite word choices. (As usual.) Considering the quite dire emotional circumstances they were composed under, I am, mostly, pleased.)
Eight months -- huh. Tempus fugit n' shit.
In my casually lateral traversal through daily routine, I confront no challenge more existentially confounding than my inability to grasp the passage of time. Hours are to me undifferentiated from decades; minutes from months, seconds from centuries. It's as if all time will be/is/was -- one. I don't know if this is a form of brain damage or higher awareness (I suspect the former.) Life is zipping by all around me and I have yet to attempt plant my feet within it's fecund promise. Surely, if I jump at this point... tumbling wildly I'd be violently sent. A violent and shocking condition perhaps preferable to my current roadside state of fetid decay. Eschewing participation to instead impotently masquerade as a "conscientious-objector." In reality (it's subjective!) a psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own, insecurities, fear and cynicism. What could be worse than to be forever/momentarily left wondering what I am capable/incapable of accomplishing. Developing neither the courage nor will to act; instead, spitefully railing against injustices (real or perceived) that permeate every facet of our technology-mainlining society that puts profits before people and monetizes our every itch.
How convenient are these paralyzing inadequacies/grievances, simultaneously affirming and diminishing strapped together by an encircling of vitriol and resentment; affixed upon which and scrawled in a childlike hand, a label: "DEPRESSION"
"Of course you're depressed. If I were you, I'd be depressed too." A somberly pronounced professional diagnosis from several years past.
Well fuck her.
Here I am on the cusp of 50 -- alone, broke, jobless, scared, sick -- with a dying dog... but I'll be damned if I'm just going to throw in the towel and succumb to my own morose stupidity. (Like I have a choice.) No, I do -- damn it! I choose to live. I choose to make this world a better place. I choose to reach out and hopefully...a hand will be there to grasp upon and pull me out of this soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking. If not -- perhaps in kicking wildly (while unavoidably speeding my decent) I will find a foothold, a soul-purchase -- by the fortuitous presence of which, I'll be able to climb out of my own accord.
Shit -- somethings gotta change... and quickly. I'm sinking fast.
Dec. 4th --
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| Willow late Nov. |
I would like to believe the stubborn beast just moved a little as the image was taken. I mean she would rather break a leg (or bite off my hand) then allow me to cut her nails so I can't imagine they were able to keep her still enough for an x-ray. That's Willow -- indomitable. Without my presence and a leash she would be run down every time she crossed the street. She refuses to acknowledge cars as anything more than abrupt air oscillations with no more capacity to damage than the wind. She wants to go "over there," she goes ... end of story.
Quite a simple creature she. Eats, drinks water, (resultantly poops and pees) sleeps (more and more), hunts lizards with admirable dedication and determination bordering on obsession. (Even my dog has an occupation!) She chases squirrels, and loves her daddy. Simple. I'm pretty sure she "knows" she is quite adored. (Actually, I sometimes believe she takes my doting affections for granted; like the air she breathes or the ice cubes in her water bowl. Though to be fair she does occasionally attack me with spontaneous and profoundly heart-felt kisses. I raised her to be self-willed. To know that her wishes and desires are important and always carry weight. (With me anyway.) When we are out on walks she picks our routes, often surprising me. (They're her walks after-all -- why shouldn't she decide where they lead.) One of my favorite exhibited character traits is her stubbornness. I see a dog approaching or sprinklers on up-ahead and try to get her to cross the street -- she sets herself and will not budge! I plead and she looks me dead in the eye (or sometimes completely ignores me) just set in her previously chosen direction. Awesome. (I mentally register "parental success" in these instances - however frustrating they may simultaneously be.) She'll register her error as she hears the forceful patter of the water against the concrete. She'll look over to me like "do something about this!" At which point I usually pick her up and carry her safely around it. If it's the lady with the two pit-bulls coming towards us -- she's overruled (and scooped-up) straight-away.
Dec. 5th - 6th
From my Dec., 2nd blog (that's still this one, only higher-up the page -- duh) you may have (justifiably) received the impression that I am unhappy. "Paralyzing, inadequacies/grievances." "state of fetid decay" "psychologically and emotionally mangled victim of my own insecurities, fear and cynicism." "soul-sucking mire in which I am sinking." Hyperbole aside, all true! But unhappy? Quite the contrary! (Perhaps this is a big part of "the problem.") If I were fully sane I believe I would most certainly be miserable. Thank God, I'm far from it. (And far from miserable.) Alright, maybe a little miserable (Is that even possible? Can you be a "little-bit" gay or a "little-bit" of a genius or for that matter, partially sane? (I strongly urge you, dear reader, not to draw any inferences from what are merely (poor?) examples.) "Miserable" may, in itself, be more exaggeration. Deep frustration and sadness caused by emotional, psychological, physical stress and disappointment in myself. Vague, but a tad more accurate.(Yes, I collect all the stresses. Strangely, they seem to be a byproduct of a "stress-free" existence.) I shall address these stresses at a future date. Surely, a good deal of this stridently decried soul-malaise is due to the imminent departure of my sole companion and terrestrial responsibility It is hard to face such profound loss without some resentment and anger. I truly love the "stubborn monkey." (I often expressed to Crystal that it wasn't possible for Willow to be "spoiled" because that would imply she expects more than she gives and to the contrary, she has always given fully and unconditionally of her Willowness. She is quite a loving and spiritually generous creature and I will miss her profoundly. To the point of not knowing how I will deal with her being "gone." (But it has to be better than dealing with her sick and dying.)
Perhaps I can go to the pound and find another dog... for a heart and lung transplant! Do dogs have blood types? Can I sew fast enough to keep her from bleeding out? (I'll need clamps and a scalpel.) Could I remove the "donor" organs without damaging them? Can I rent a respirator? I'll need to remove the bed from the spare bedroom and get a large aluminum (stainless-steel? ooh... expensive) table... How sanitary is "sanitary enough?" I will need more light. Disinfectants (iodine?) and anti rejection medications. Strong pain medication. Anesthesia... This could work! Yeah... maybe -- if I were Tony Stark. (I just had an image of Willow with little crimson booties and a glowing blue circle in her chest rising up three feet of the ground to snatch a stunned lizard in her grinning maw.)
Dec. 10th
Well, sheet. This is rough. Willow is still having really good days. I can't say the same for the nights. After sundown she is pretty much comatose. She started having some trouble sleeping a few nights ago -- periodically, shifting and her breathing is becoming more labored; Bad sign. I do not want her to suffer. She is still eating, drinking and joyfully chasing lizards. I have been debating on whether or not the best time to "put her down" (oh Lord!) might be when she is outside chasing lizards, with belly full, bowels yet empty, and the breeze ruffling her hair. (Schnauzer's don't have fur.) Her (lifelong) glory, her element; happy. Perhaps I could have the vet meet me out there. Would this be an act of compassion or selfishness? I am living in a state of semi-shock caused by the soul shredding sadness of her impending departure. (Couldn't have come at a worse time either, because I do not want to leave her alone (and thereby miserable) and yet, I am in a real financial bind. I was already in a funk -- but this episode has brought it to an entirely new level.) I know, I know it's just a dog. The closeness I feel, mostly, illusory; an affectation brought about by our (decade-plus, long) proximity and reliance on one another's presence. Her's for companionship (far more successfully than Crystal) and me as slave to her every desire.
Part of me even wonders if I am depriving her of something important by just suddenly ending it. If those moments of revelation -- that her body is dying -- is an integral part of her journey through this plane of existence.
This is so difficult. Her "mother" hasn't called once. Oh wait -- she did . About a week ago. To ask about a package that was erroneously shipped to my old address after which she inquired after Willow. I had called her the day I got the diagnosis -- and told her I would bring Willow back up to Pensacola for "goodbyes" (I think Willow would like that -- but Crystal said she rather I didn't. That she wasn't as good as I am dealing with "death." (Translation: I am her emotional superior. Intellectual too. (Yes, I know the latter is rather obvious but I felt like proclaiming it! While I'm at it, I might as well lay claim to emotional superiority. (However developmentally-arrested -- my emotional "purity" sanctions and affirms this claim. This particular triptych may, in fact, entitle me to wear the "spiritual" crown as well. (Debatable; she is a youth minister after all.) None of this changes the fact that it's all-the-more difficult going through this alone. Then again, I know, first hand, how difficult this is to deal with and wouldn't wish this emotional trauma on anyone -- even my monstrous minister ex. So, I forgive her. )
Willow wants to go out -- couldn't possibly refuse.
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