Damn Dog

I can say my life has been a series of unfortunate events, but that will be a little over dramatic. I suppose it’s only been the last 6 years that have completely changed me. I am convinced one would be able to pick up these drastic changes somewhere in my physical composition. Changes this severe leave scar tissue not only on the soul.

I suppose my black dog was born somewhere in 2012. I have yet to figure out the breed. At first I thought it was a pavement special mongrel – the kind I have a huge soft spot for. The underdog who I like to root for in nature. But as time went by and this dog started to grow, I realised that this is probably some kind of thoroughbred, expensive giant. Not the kind that runs around or that has a deep, loud bark. But the kind that sits at your gate and refuses to let anybody in. It doesn’t even growl. He just draws his upper lip to show the sheer size of his incisors. That alone is enough.

And at first this is where he stayed - at home. But as years went by and he grew up, the malaised giant started to walk with me. When I dare to stop and lay down it would sometimes come and lay right on my chest.

I hate that dog. Which is a very difficult thing for me to say as I love all dogs. And like most, when he was still a puppy I figured that I could handle him. That it’s just life. Man up, oh pathetic one.

The First Year

In the first year following my father’s death

I found myself a few times wanting to call him,

only to realize that a quick question wasn’t permitted any more.

I suppose - the same goes for a break up.

If you spoke to someone daily for years

-  most of your life in this case -  

and relied on that Someone like you did a childhood saint, way into your thirties

then the mere void of communication is a gut punch on its own.

I have been told it’s all my fault.

That it’s a choice.

That God is still there for me.

I am the one choosing to pull out.

I must be one helluva woman if the Creator of the Universe could give me the cold shoulder.

Tonight again - I lay in bed - wanting so desperately for Him to dry the tears.

I know what’s coming.

I suppose whether He cares about it is besides the point.

We can argue about dogs in Heaven.

At the end that won’t change this moment.

Or this need.

A need just for solace.

And just like that.

Just like the kid in the orphanage who stops crying, I go numb.

The tears roll over an expressionless face.

When the parting of my lips produces sound it’s somewhat coherent.

But you know that the silence of this moment is the start of a black hole deep down in your soul.

Zombie

Setting the mood...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XaS93WMRQQ

My mind is a street café

Most people can become very poetic when the black dog bites. The irony sneers at me when I feel the weight of intensity, but my desire to pen it down dawdles somewhere in reality. 

I suppose that’s not true. My desire isn’t dawdling. It is using every single bit of energy this body can muster to get through the day. To get through the morning. I try and hold on to reality. That is the problem, I think. I should let go and just give in. But I fear if I ever let go of the last bit of my capacity to be complacent in life – I will drop out of reach. I can say that I don’t care, but I suppose I do. Otherwise I would have let go years ago.

Also, these days books are a dime a dozen. Everybody is a writer. Everybody gets published. Saying “I wrote a book” holds little weight. Saying “I am a writer” means nothing. Hemingway is dead. F Scott Fitzgerald, Cohen. All dead. And in this new wave of life where every second person is adding “writer” to their CV, the muddle that it creates in a dying industry gets trampled even further - until all that remains is a dirty footprint on the payment of life. No more dirt roads. Paradise is paved.

I suppose I never did want to write a 'self-help book' with knowledge of how to outrun the black dog. I suppose my life would be less of a fight if I could just learn to walk with it. No leash. No training it with commands to 'heel'.

So my thoughts are stuck in a street café. It’s passed midnight and apart from 3 people sitting in opposite dimly-lit corners, the place is empty. The smoke hanging like a dramatic curtain reeks with the stench of day-old hope, left behind by the masses. The silence rings in a new day. Time to nip the cigarette and have one last one – for the road. - As I get up, the dog gets up with me and we both head out the door.