|
sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
|
Grating Devil Dogs
Ollie & The Grating My landlady's dog Oliver knows that I love him. (I love all dogs--just so long as I don't have to assume any responsibility for them.) Oliver regularly pushes his way into my apartment and does this thing that amuses the hell out of me. There's a grating for the floor heater that separates the front room from the kitchen. Ollie won't cross this grating, not for any reason, not for love or for money, not even for the reward of a big smelly bag of garbage. I suppose it's because the holes in the grating hurt his delicate little paws. However, Oliver regularly tests the grating just to see if he's up to it, or if his paws have toughened up enough or something. So he runs into the apartment, runs over to the grating, and sniffs at it. Then he gingerly places a single paw on the grating--without putting any weight on it. And he pats it. Then he looks at me and I say something clever, like, "Not this time, Ollie? Maybe next time, huh, puppy puppy puppy?" And he wags his tail happily at me and runs off. Here's a photo of Ollie as he prepared today to perform the daily Grating Test (which, needless to say, failed once again):
Better luck tomorrow, Oliver. Altar'd My altars are generally comprised of things that I find on my walks, or things that I collect from around the house, just bits and pieces of detritis from the dream that is my waking life. I collect feathers, for example, whenever I find them, because feathers are blessings from one of the earliest creatures to which I pay gratitude. For a similar reason, I also often collect fallen leaves and seed pods. And I also recognize that altars should be kept in a constant state of flux, if only to remind myself of the utility of lucidity as it relates to my perpetual dream state. In keeping with this belief, I pulled down the altar that I had been working on for the last year, and jarred it. Here is a photo of altar preserves, which apparently take an entire year to cure:
You can see the dice and fortune cookie fortune that are my concession to the element of chance that is part of the dream. And at the bottom are the snake vertebrae that I wore around my neck for several months as a talisman of protection and to remind me of the serpent whose actions in the Garden of Eden led to the generations of women and men intended to bring about the fruition of God's promise to Adam and Eve. (Yes, I was reading a lot of Milton, as well as wrangling the Aka Demon when I wore the vertebrae.) Ryan? Is That You? After dodging a couple more Richard calls, I got a strange call from Ryan. Ryan is a friend of Mayflowers, a guy who I don't really know all that well and who I have never given my phone number to. And before you get any ideas, let me just tell you that Ryan is also totally, totally gay. Seriously gay. So I don't think he was calling for the Richard reason. But he didn't say in his message why he was calling. My hope is that he was calling to offer me a job, but that is just wishful thinking at this point. More than likely, he was calling so that I could set him up with Max or something. Who knows? Updates to follow. Too Tired To Be Grateful And yet I persist: I am grateful. I am grateful for a call from an unlikely boy. I am grateful for the films of Jim Jarmusch. I am grateful for Oliver. I am grateful for blueberries. I am grateful for my laptop. I am grateful for Sophistica and Max and for hot days and for bananas. I am grateful. I am grateful for Dylan, one of the many cuties who works behind the counter at my fabulous video rental place. I am grateful. I am grateful for mineral water and for organic produce and for public restrooms. I am grateful. I am grateful and obedient. I am grateful and humble. I am grateful.
More lies:
|
|||||
