Another excruciating day. The tentacles of damp are clamping tighter and tighter around my ankles, sending neuropathic screams upwards, spiralling aroud the calves, settling around knee and hip joints, celebrating with clammy fireworks, then swirling in cruel rhythmic patterns around the lower back. Autism hypersenses or the autoimmunity? Who knows? Have we solved the chicken egg conundrum yet?
The body is being contrary. And the mind is wearied. I am just so mentally exhausted by the weight of Evil combined with the equally (to me) sinister proselytising LaLaLanders, marching like Wagnerian Valkyrian Armies from opposite directions, treading roughshod upon the spacescape of my tranquil isolation. They are relentless, they will not leave well alone. The news of killings, murders, the mainstream media spouting bigoted vitriol, and the sweetie-pie-kawaii brigade with their equally forceful saccharine theologies…
Go away, ALL of you!
My Being is screaming from inside the silent fishbowl. Unheard. Unheeded. Viewed with jaundiced eye by all and sundry. Everyone has a cool opinion. Me, I just want to be left in peace.
Nevertheless. Amidst the latent battle, after our breakfasts (I had chicken mayonnaise sammich), we hobbled forth, venturing into the inclement atmosphere, Miss Lucy and I, both arthritic middle aged females, determined to enjoy our walk together. I was adamant that I should give Lucy as much of my strength as I could muster, she needs the walk, she needs to perform her rituals, and she of course, was probably driven by the anticipation of gastronomic delights at her favourite shop, Rupert&Dora! Lost inside our individual roaring silence, yet enveloped within a shared soft, silken wrap of clemency, we made our way in the rain. My bad, I failed yet again at tip top executive functionality – I did not equip us both with our raincoats. It wasn’t heavy rain, but after ten minutes, we did begin to look somewhat soggy. A bag of Lucy’s regular meal topping of frozen raw green tripe from K9 Instinct later, we meandered home.
My Warm Vanilla Hound needed a good wipe down. I threw in a little massage with coconut oil and lavender essence for good measure. She is now snoring away in my bed with a goofy grin on her face.
I tell her (and myself) very often, “Someday, mumma will give you a better life than the one we have now.” It is less a promise than an ardent hope. How can I make promises I am not absolutely sure I can keep? I fear. Finally coming into a state of Beingness this late in my life, there are not any more sureties left to have, whether real or imagined. But the anxiety both weighs me down and yet spins me forward in an irregularly circular motion.
What are your warm vanilla dreams?
Perhaps, someday. For now, my gentle luncheon beckons, and the deliciously inviting gift of Pannacotta from my good pal Rick awaits tucking into, while I listen to the sounds of gentle Greyhound Angel snoring.