And that's the first headline scrolling down the page this morning?
Twenty years of diaries and nary an honest word therein. It's not that I didn't exactly know it was mostly falsehood, but I really wanted it to be true. That must count for something, right. Where does one go with that?
Take a deep breath and start again.
I woke one morning last week once again with these words on my lips: It's now or never. Don't bother picking up where you left off. Just recycle the lot and start fresh. I don't want to insult the people who've known all along how messed up things are and have had to live fully immersed in the consequence of fuckedupness, and I've known all along that it was really fucked up but I just didn't want it to be as fucked up as it is.
I'm talking of course about the country and the election. I wouldn't say I'm reeling but let's call it crestfallen. I'm crestfallen and resigned to the old adage, "Nothing changes if nothing changes." This is no different. If this isn't a wake up call then I'm already dead. Viking funeral, please.
Time to start fresh.
So yes... (looks around)
Scientists say dogs dream about the humans they love. We are going to begin with that flagpole thrust into the ground like a mariner landing on a new shore. New for him, anyway. Never you mind the people standing there thinking who the fuck are you and what fresh hell is this we have enough gods thank you ever so fucking much.
None of this is as scattered as it may read. Trust that it will all circle back in, but it has to start somewhere and we're going to start with a dog dreaming. We're going to start with a scabby pitbull lying on an old comforter and she's asleep but crying. She inhales deeply as if startled and exhales in a series of far off sobs and whimpers. She has a story or a narrative if you will that only she knows but it's easy to see that there's something in there. It's the crying in her sleep, and then sometimes when she's awake she stops in the middle of whatever she's doing, as if she's just remembered something she forgot to do, like a woman leaving for the shops stopping to remember if she turned off the flame under the kettle. Then she pauses and stares off into space, and she huffs a bit and continues about her canine business. There is an entire narrative hidden just beneath the surface of those moments.
Or maybe, just maybe, her concern isn't with her past but with the future. Do dogs have a future?
Have I ever been able to conceive of a length of time before me, or have I always been too hung up on the widening expanse behind me?
I need to think about that.