Day 187: Sometimes I Am

Sometimes I am.

Sometimes I am suspended in time. Unable to stop staring ahead at what could be.

Sometimes I am a twisted warrior upon wooden horse entwined with emotion.

Sometimes I am wounded. A broken woman watching the east for the sun that never came.

Sometimes I am the shadow crying up to the heavens.

Sometimes I am knight hidden in the corner. Eyes a glow with fear and spear made sharp.

Sometimes I am crucified in the forest of thought.

Sometimes I am twin flame, calling out to lost lover.

Sometimes I am clinging branch longing for confirmation of my existence.

Sometimes I am a naked glow, harboring the mysteries.

Sometimes I am refugee, sleeping in my corner of light.

Sometimes I am dancing spirit with partner grace.

Sometimes I am union, passion, and joy.

Sometimes I am a jester pointing the way to laughter.

Sometimes I am constant searcher.

Sometimes I am beauty that sweeps across stage.

Sometimes I am electric.

Sometimes I stand together.

Sometimes I rise alone.

Sometimes I am.

~~~~~

Photos and words by Sam Craft. Trees on my walk.

Day 138: Fishy in the Blue

Maui 2012



This is a banjo song that I just wrote to play on my first guitar. Yes, I know. “Banjo song to play on my guitar”—sums up my life, fairly well. 

Fishy in the Blue

I’m living in a dreamland

The water’s ocean blue

Swimming to the outskirts

Of what I thought was you

But seeing only hard glass

That’s staring back at me

Sad eyes of the morning

Drenched in misery

Aquarium of aqua, and slowly merging green

Aquarium of absence, where you were meant to be

I’m living in a dreamland

Your face is all I know

Staring through the ripples

And watching as you go

Hunting through this glass cage

A sliver through a rock

Waiting for my sweet love

To give my home a knock

You’re shaking up my water

You’re shimmering my world

With all your fancy sparkles

And all your hidden jewels

A cauldron where a prince breathes

A castle undersea

You’re everything this fish needs

To live in luxury

I’m living in a dreamland

Your face is all I know

Staring through the ripples

And watching as you go

Hunting through this glass cage

A sliver through a rock

Waiting for my sweet love

To give my home a knock

There’s seahorses and urchins

And plenitude of schools

There’s suitors at my doorstep

Reciting gratitude

But I ain’t got no interest

Not even ‘nough to look

Too busy staring outward

A mermaid to a hook

I round the laps familiar

Still circling this place

Keep staring through that window

Keep giving love a chase

I’m living in a dreamland

Your face is all I know

Staring through the ripples

And watching as you go

Hunting through this glass cage

A sliver through a rock

Waiting for my sweet love

To give my home a knock

The bubbles they keep floating

Atop this prison cell

Serenading sadness

As far as I can tell

But I can’t stop my twanging

My fins to banjo string

You’re everything I wished for

You give this goldie wings

So sweetie  if you’re out there

Beyond this world of mine

Why don’t you come forward

So I can watch you shine

‘Cause I am just a fishy

In everything I do

A little fancy heartache

That’s swimming in the blue

~ Sam of the Blue

Post dedicated to my Irish Grandpa Mac. Rest in Peace.

June 2012

Day 75: A Good Day in My Book

Image found at CHAAR - Click for link

Alternate Title: What Accounts for a Good Day in my Book…assuming I had a book, which I don’t. That’s why I blog.

I seem to be big into the alternate titles. It would be fun to make a list of alternative titles for people, places, and things. I bet you can think of a few alternative titles you’d like to call some people! Of course, I mean this in friendly, Buddhist-minded terms—like the enlightened one and the gentle being.

Okay, so I’m a goof. This I know. Nothing wrong with goof, except that goof is closely related to the spelling of goon and goob. Coincidence? I think not.

Backspace, Samantha.

Speaking of the name Samantha, I’ve been using the name Sam so much to answer readers’ comments that I’ve started answering some of my personal emails with the name Sam, instead of my given legal name. I find this quite funny. I imagine getting an email back from a close friend I have known for twenty years, and her signing her name “Rhonda” instead of “Lisa,” and that just cracks me up. I’d be thinking: This chick has surely flipped. Then I’d be thinking what does “flipped out” mean, and what is the origin of this saying. I digress.

If you ever read a post of mine and I come across as level-headed, straight to the point, dry and organized, please assume I have been taking over by a life-sucking pod like in the classic horror flick The Body Snatchers. I am not going to wake up one day, in this same human form anyhow, and be able to stick to one agenda or one point, unless I’m making a list. And even then, the list will likely meander or be super long. I don’t get how someone can just list a few facts and be done. If I tried to do that I would have so much stuff leftover in my brain, I’d need three more blogs to write the rest of the list.

Hmmmm? Have you ever noticed how some bloggers have more than one blog? Maybe it’s so they can appear sane. But I bet if you put a person’s multiple blogs’ blogging-words (posts) together, the combined words would create and entirely different profile. Something to think about if you work for the secret-service, FBI, or stalk people.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Found at All Movies; click for link

Don’t worry. I’m sticking to one blog with posts that could easily over spill into three more days of posts.

Backspace, Samantha.

I want to talk about how people used to say: The field of battle, and how they now say battlefield, and how the field of battle sounds so much cooler. I can picture a bunch of goobs upping their sophistication level ten marks, while munching open-mouthed on chips and dip, by saying, the field of football. But I’m not here to talk about that. But what other ways could we feasibly employ this sentence structure…Beatles song: “Fields of Strawberries forever.”

I wonder why I couldn’t focus in school? I still don’t agree with the one comment on my fifth grade report card: Has trouble occupying self when finishes work early. I’m certain I was occupying myself fully. I just happened to appear comatose and staring off in space. No doubt. Unless I was body-snatched since then.

Do you see how I did a full circle back to the previous prose in the last sentence? That is the sign of a gifted writer—or a rambling circular-state, similar to when a dog chases its tail. Dogs are cute. I’m okay with that. No butt sniffing though. Or licking, or poop eating, or garbage hounding…crap, for being so cute, dogs do a lot of gross-me-out stuff.

Image found at Spiritually Directed

Backspace, Samantha.

I better stop myself. How do I do that? First scroll up to remember what the heck the original title of this post was. Now focus.

Good day? Well so far today sucks rotten eggs. It’s only ten in the morning and I am yawning constantly, dealing with a leg cramp, messed up the time of my massage appointment (= no massage), waited in the waiting room for blood tests, until I found out I was supposed to fast (= no blood test), opened an envelope with unexpected and unwanted bill, and opened a new loaf of bread to discover clouds of green mold.

Here’s what a Good day looks like in my book:

A Good Day in My Book

  1. The internet works efficiently and I can log on and obsess about my social network group page and my blog stats.
  2. When I slept the whole night through without being disturbed by a dog’s bark, my husband’s restless leg, or nightmares where I find myself back at college, only I’ve forgotten how to find the classroom and I’m late to class.
  3. When there is some form of chocolate in the house that I can reach and open with little effort.
  4. When no one rants, raves, whines, or screams at me.
  5. When I can stay in my pajamas all day, not brush my hair, have no appointments, feel no attachment to doing chores, and my husband cleans the dishes and brings home takeout.
  6. When Netflix adds new television series to the menu. Especially intense documentaries, genius comics, and the show Weeds.
  7. When someone calls and says something nice, like I love you, Let’s get together soon, or Can I please, please, come and clean your house and watch your kids? It would mean a lot to me.
  8. When my dog doesn’t eat my underwear.
  9. When I can think of something to write without having to watch two hours of Internet videos first for inspiration and without having to delete the three page post I wrote while tipsy.
  10. When a reader truly gets me and I find a way to make her or him smile.
  11. When I reread Tony Attwood’s (Aspegers guru, author, speaker) email complimenting my blog and specifically the list of female traits for females with Aspergers.

All in all, yesterday was a good day in my book. Everything on the list happened, except no one volunteered to come over to the house and my dog ate my underwear, again. She only eats my underwear. Makes me wonder. But that will have to wait for another post.

Here Comes The Sun. Oh, and here comes Spastic Colon, my dog, with my underwear!

Day 52: Stop Stealing My Articles You Boob!

This is our Scooby who passed on in February. His photo is here because he makes me feel safe.

If nothing else is gained from this post, at least you got to see a good-looking dog.

That’s our Scoob. He passed on in February at the age of six years. I miss him everyday. Today Scooby’s photo is here on my blog because he reminds me of the beauty and love in the world.

I’m not feeling too happy about people at the moment. Not you, but the boobs of the world! The people who seem to mess it up for the rest of us.

This is my dog Spastic Colon. She is still alive. I put her picture here because Scooby loved her and she's a Boob!

This is my other dog. I love her, but she is a boob.

I just spent three hours going through my entire blog and deleting as many photos as I could find. Fun times!

Hopefully you weren’t following my blog for the cute images.

If you cruise through my posts now, all those animal images Crazy Frog found are sadly gone. Sigh.

Vanished are the YouTubes as well. But there are still links.

At this point, I’m seriously hoping you like to read.

I removed the photos because of copyright infringement. I learned today, through my own research, that I ought not be posting others’ photos without permission; which makes a lot of sense in retrospect. Kind of that AhHa! factor.

I was researching copyright laws after I discovered some BOOB is taking my most popular Aspergers articles and posting them on his/her blog.

I want the word about Females and Aspergers to spread, but at the same time, I don’t want someone stealing my thoughts and my work.

Considerate and honest people contact me first and ask how to go about quoting my work.

Conveniently the “blogger,” who is supposedly some lady, has no contact and no comment section. I don’t think one article is anything he/she wrote.

I needed to do something about this injustice, so I made a cool sign! You can see it below.

If you go to the blog page I listed, which you probably are tempted to do, (as I know I would be) then PLEASE consider coming back to my blog afterwards, and supporting me with comments.

Words like that boob in the comment section would work wonders for my stinky-state of mind.

I know the article says Aspegersgirls—but I don’t want my work and my words on his/her page.

If you look, one of my articles still has my copyright protection on the bottom. Obviously he/she isn’t putting much effort into this.

I know this might not seem like a big deal.  But it’s a big deal to me. This is my heart’s work. Please consider not supporting bloggers who steal other people’s work. Don’t follow them. Don’t visit their blogs. It discourages other honest people, like me, from wanting to blog at all.

I will gladly remove the sign when my articles are removed from the blog page where they don’t belong. I also thought to include my own sign. Because if Boob gets one, then I should, too. I don’t care if this Boob’s blog hits go up. Hopefully it will only be for a day. Thanks for letting me do a mini-protest. Not that you had a choice. But thanks, anyhow.

The sign has been removed after contact with blog owner. However I will replace the sign, if needed.

Day Thirty-Eight: Things That Make Me Go EWW!

Once a month my boys have late start—a time where they go to school an hour late because the teachers have a staff meeting. This bit of schedule variation sets me up for an anxiety-ridden morning. Everything—the alarm clock, breakfast time, traffic—is a little bit off. And the morning is always a little less predictable.

For instance, my youngest is currently undergoing an eye therapy program, and because we had extra time before school began, he played his favorite eye therapy game with one of his older brothers at 8:00 am. Eye therapy first thing in the morning, instead of the traditional afternoon time, brought about changes. Changes that included Robert, my youngest, standing on the basement-level floor at the bottom of our staircase, knocking wooden blocks off an ironing board by smacking an orange soft ball with a big stick. A ball held by a string hung over the stair banister at the top-level, a string that I balanced, while playing referee and keeping score.

Late start meant that there was time for my youngest, age ten, when finished knocking over the blocks and shouting gleefully, to make himself some scrambled eggs (without asking); so that when I returned from a cold shower, (because all three boys had enough extra time to all shower in a row, which left Mom no hot water), I found the kitchen, I had painstakingly cleaned, covered in eggs, shredded cheese, and what-have-you.

This while my Spastic-Colon (my dog; not my intestines) decided to do that move that all dogs do when there is a clump stuck to their rear. I watched, my hands covered in wet egg, as Spastic-C balanced on her butt, used her front legs like ski poles, hiked up the back legs, and slid across the kitchen linoleum, leaving a line of crap. My oldest, by then groaning and moaning from the disgustingness of the situation, was made (by me) to balance Spastic-C between his legs and hike up her tail, to ensure I had the best vantage point and stability for scissoring off the poop lump.

It’s about 9:00 am and I’m so ready to crawl back in bed. Only my husband’s big 5-O is arriving shortly, and I haven’t the faintest idea what to buy him. That, and LV is shouting: “Oh my gosh! You’re going to be married to a fifty-year-old! Gross.” (Yes…I know…it’s right around the corner for me, too.)

I thought about making a sweet list, using an acrostic of the alphabet, where I match one item/person/event that I’m thankful for to each letter. For instance, A is for apples, B is for boys, C is for custard. But then I thought (because let’s face it, thinking is what I do best) that I wasn’t in the mood to be some chipper, happy-go-lucky, nothing-gets-me-down, poop head! I’m not a Pollyanna; never will be; never could be. Though that used to be Spastic-C’s name when we adopted her, which in retrospect explains a whole lot.

By the way, my real name means from Mars.

Right now my eyes hurt, my shoulders hurt, and I’m freaking out knowing I’m only about 10% done with this blog. Since I’ve already written about 60 pages. Logically, I hypothesize I will be typing some 600 pages by the time this blog hits the magic 365 Days.  Don’t you even think about erasing me from your blog email list!

There is no doubt I have enough thoughts inside of me to share 600-pages of content.  That’s not the troubling factor. What I fret over is the absurdity that could potentially leak out in roughly 300 days.

There is only so much editing Crazy Frog can do (my lingo button); and there is a limited amount of brute strength I possess to keep LV and Sir Brain from running the show. Then there is Elephant, who likes to clomp over the pages, and Prophet in my Pocket’s extremely profound, lost-in-my-mind prose. Then I have Phantom, who hasn’t even showed herself fully. I can only imagine what she’s got hidden under her cape.

Oh Crap! (I hope that’s not offensive in countries outside of the USA; because where I live, crap is actually quite mild comparatively speaking. I’m stopping myself from using the thesaurus in combination with crap. But feel free.)

I typed Oh Crap because I forgot I had to still take my youngest to school. Don’t worry. He ran barefoot to the van and got his socks and shoes on during the ride, just in time, before he had to sprint to the classroom. Although, he couldn’t wear his new tie-shoes because there was no time for shoe tying. That’s why he said to me as he was bolting out the van’s side door, “Don’t worry Mom. I’ll call you if my shoes fall apart!”

I’m such a good mom.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes when I’m in an exhausted, wish-I-had-stayed-in-bed mood, I don’t like to read about how grateful people are and how life always has a bright side.

In all honesty, what cheers me up is hearing about other people’s crap and their struggles, and how they’re still doing okay despite it all, and that we’re all just free-styling in some giant pool of life, because know one really knows how to swim the right way.

Here’s a list that would make me happy, if you wrote it. I invite you to make one and post your list in comments. Just right (write) the first thing that pops into your mind. That’s what I did. But you probably figured that out.

Things That Make Me Go EWW! (or bother me)

A: Ants when they crawl out in masses out of cracks in the house

B: Beef on a plate

C: Curds on milk

D: Dentist chairs

E: Egg shells dripping with raw egg

F: Fat around my waist and on my upper arms

G: Goats’ stench at petting zoos

H: Hamburger cooking smell

I: Insides of the toilet bowl rim

J: Jellybeans that are throw up flavor

K: Kids picking their nose

L: Lights that are fluorescent

M: Money; it’s a love-hate relationship

N: Nuts in frozen carrot cake that scratch my throat

O: Octopus on a plate

P: Pigeon poop

Q: Questions that aren’t really questions but disguised insinuations or insults

R: Red coming out of a nose

S: Sunshine factor in the state of Washington

T: Teeth that are chipped

U: Underneath firewood where there are bugs and spiders

V: Vampire HBO series endings, because I want more

W: Wind

X: X-rays of any type, especially teeth x-rays

Y: Yellow in the toilet bowl

Z: Zoos, especially petting zoos

I thought that list would take a long time. It didn’t. So therapeutic! I think my next list will be people that make me go EWW! No. Just kidding.

Here’s a great alphabet list from another blogger that made me laugh! Prawn and Quartered Blog

A Dog’s Poem

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A Dog’s Poem (Valentines 2012)

The Reasons I Loved My Life

My luxurious golden coat of fur; everyone commented; everyone petted

Playing keep away, and never ever giving up my fluffy toy, ball, rope, or underwear

My handsome mug; some say I resemble the actor Richard Gere

Deep brown bedroom eyes—for the ladies—and long lashes

Eau de Toilette Water

Quick leg lift, to mark my territory, even when running on empty

The rustling sound of plastic bags and the jingling of my leash, before the spelling of W-A-L-K

Steak

Pawing humans on the knee to receive free all-over-body-massage

Big, manly hugs

Wrestling with little humans on the plush carpet

Rubbing my butt across plush carpet

Ignoring cat

Reaching that itch

Ear rubs

Rolling in the green, green grass

Running crazy all over the house, after a bath

Shaking bathwater all over the humans

The scrumptious word: Treat

Learning the meaning of sit, wait, leave it, down, and good boy

The one, and only time, Violet, my miniature black-Labradoodle-lady, was in heat {Maybe move that one to the top of list}

Those many times I appeared sleeping, and humans would walk by, and I’d lift my one leg in the air super stiff and high, and keep it there, until someone rubbed my underbelly

(Sigh)

Reiki

Dog sitters

Dog sitters leaving an entire peach pie on the kitchen counter

Visitors

When my hair grew back after the groomers

When Violet had to wear those dorky purple bows in her hair because the groomer glued them to her ears; and I’ll I had to do was yank of my dorky bandana—Ha, ha

Letting Violet eat my treats, sometimes

Strange ladies on the road with doggy treats in their pockets

The sand and the sea

The tree-lined trails

Sneaking up the steps to the trampoline

The one time, by chance, I figured out if I reached up just right with my paw I could get the water dispenser on the fridge to squirt out

Opening glass sliding doors with my nose

When the humans were trapped outside because I accidentally locked the sliding door with my nose

Doggy doors

Charging full force and knocking over the littlest human into the grass ten times in a row, everyday, for a good twelve months

Little humans

Blankets and pillows

The expensive chair that I adopted upon my arrival

Grabbing a rope-toy super hard with my teeth and shaking it to death

Rapidly torpedoing around the backyard in circles

Dog-surfing—the van window down, wind in my fluffy face, big, teethy-smile!

That people could tell I was smiling

Jumping over that old dog, back and forth, because it was the only way he could play with me

My tail

Being brave

Slurping water from the hose

Squirrels!

Butts

Off-leashing at the canine park

When I was brave enough to venture into the backyard on my very own

Standing on my hind legs and dancing with humans

Standing on my hind legs, reaching over the stovetop, and eating the entire pan of barbecue chicken

Standing on my hind legs and licking the dishes in the sink

That one chocolate Santa I found in the bedroom

Remember?

Lounging on the first step of our swimming pool during the hot summers

Our old backyard

Running at the side of my male human

Drinking out of water bottles

Parading around the lake

People’s smiles

People’s love

Steak (again)

Hearing my name

Big spoonful of peanut butter

Knocks at the door

Doorbells

Birds on the roof

Footsteps

Barking

People

The oddity of lamas and deer

Protecting

The last embrace felt as you kissed me goodbye

Your faces

Your voices

Your touch

Your farewell

Your wishes

Your promises

Your laughter

Your tears

And mostly just you

Your love

And everything about you

My beloved family

Forever walking at your side

Scoob

Our beautiful Scoob departed this world in February of 2012. I love you, angel face.

Day Eleven: To See Just a Dog and Nothing More

Day Eleven: To See Just a Dog and Nothing More.

I think Scoob is dying, He’s not moving, hardly at all.

Our golden-doodle Scooby is very, very sick. I don’t know if he will make it this time. In early October he was also ill. He had lost fifteen pounds from an internal staph infection in the neck region: he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t get out of his designated chair, and was very despondent.

Today is a little different, the weight is still on him, but he appears boney, as if a part of him, a part I can’t readily see, at least in spirit, has been chiseled away. He can barely stand. He has a fever of 103.8, and black tarry stools keep appearing from the internal bleeding.

I can’t stand it when someone is in pain, especially animals. It tears me up inside, and I can’t focus. It’s not that he’s my dog, he could be anyone’s dog (and in actuality he doesn’t belong to anyone anyhow) it’s that he is experiencing suffering and pain.

And I question what he is feeling, what he thinks is happening as he loses capacity to function—to even raise his little paw to ask, in his darling manner, to be petted. I wonder if he knows that when we took him to the vet yesterday evening, and he had all those tests, and the emergency shots, that we were trying to help him. I wonder if he can feel my own worry. No, that’s not exactly correct: I worry that he does in fact feel my concern, and that makes him sadder. I question if he understands this concept of mortality and the afterlife. People say dogs, and animals in general, don’t, but how can we possibly know? Maybe they are heavenly spirits sent down to save us from isolation: to connect us back to instinctual unconditional love. Maybe he can see his life force dissipating and slipping into another place.

I feel guilty, too, because, I haven’t been the best master. I could have taken him on more walks. It’s just his size—that of a stocky standard poodle—is hard on me, and he’s such a people and dog lover, that he pulls and pulls in order to reach out to others. He only wants to share his being and love; he doesn’t mean to hurt my shoulder in the process. He doesn’t know why I haven’t taken him on more walks, of late. And he just stares me down with the big dark and very, very sad brown eyes, as if asking why? Only, I don’t know what the why is now. Is it why the pain? Why the hurt? Why me? Or is he simply him naturally and effortlessly releasing and letting go, as humans struggle so much to do, and surrendering to the lifecycle.

I wonder if I did something wrong. Months ago Scooby stood on his hind legs, like a circus bear, and stole his pack of doggy vitamins from the top counter. Though I guess stole isn’t the accurate word—as they were his doggy vitamins. And sweet Scoob didn’t know not to eat the entire bottle of liver-flavored treats—he hadn’t known they could hurt him. Why would his human friends live anything around to hurt him? And I wonder if this overdose, in someway, might have damage him internally. And there was the freak snowstorm and the three-day power outage this year, when I was so obsessed with saving our freezer food by stuffing as much perishables as I could in the snow, that I forgot that Scoob would want some. As it was there, right in his domain, all this meat and dairy, all the yummy intense and enticing smells. Had I not felt obligated to share some, to give a few tidbits of our people- food, maybe his stomach, or whatever is bleeding, would be healthy now.

There is an agonizing twist in my stomach—the recognition of potential loss—this black wisp of nothingness that reaches up from the depths of me, beneath the physical layer, from some oblique existence, and nips at the tender parts of my being.  In the pain, I am reminded of all the loses before, all the animals that were once here and now gone, all the people who were part of my life and slipped away, rather through life circumstance or through the veil of death. They are all somewhere else now, whether on this plane or on another celestial plane, it doesn’t matter. They are no longer here. And thus I question this here. I question the here and now. The element of time—the element-less-ness of time—how time isn’t an element at all, and perpetually reminding us of his nonexistence.

Beyond my worry and wonder, and the deep pondering, my brain begins to jump, like those mysterious Mexican jumping beans that were so very popular in my youth—splattering about, these synapses of my mind, leaping to one fear to the next. The hypochondriac-state settling itself in for a stay. I feel the presence, the familiar presence of this unwanted visitor. I won’t even give it a gender, a he or a she it does not deserve. It comes every few weeks, giving me reprieve only for a short, short while, lets my brain rest and not focus on death for a wee stretch of time, before it returns to mock me with its ways. And mocking this entity of fear has done since I could form memories. It’s made me afraid of everything that is unexplainable to the physical form. It’s made me fear my own body, my own presence. I’ve died a thousand deaths, in a thousand different ways. As a child death took me from the killer bees, from rabies, from the cancer-causing blow dryer, from swallowing a scrap of tinfoil, from the crusted scab on my knee. Death took me later from AIDS, Hepatitis C, colon cancer, uterine cancer, breast cancer, pancreatic cancer. Death even took me from toe fungus and a tiny zit. It is clever this entity, draping a black mask over my eyes, so everything light becomes dark, everything nonthreatening: a potential end mark to my breathing.

And in having dear Scooby sick, my precious boy, this death entity has bypassed the doors to my reasoning and entered my premises unannounced and unwelcomed. It laughs, because it tells I knew of the coming, because I could feel the rupturing of my own eternal woes, the familiar angst of what was to be: the mind bending and turning, the piercing of the present and bringing back of every fear.

It laughs because I let it in; it so claims, I allowed it to sneak through the cracks of my illogical reasoning. And so I am made victim twice: once for my lacking and once for my believing. Oh, to have a simple mind, that only sees the sick dog, that only feels the potential loss, and not the intense wonderings and aches of a seemingly limitless field of pain.

And now I worry for myself, my own health—this transference of my dogs pain into mine. Yet, another time the world has centered upon me. And I question my innocence and being. Have I a right to exist when my focus is continually led back to my own self, my own sufferings? How I pull the leash that is wrapped around another back to me, pulling the attention my direction. Am I not a failure for taking the pain and making it mine? Am I not a failure for yet again making the experience about me? And if it is not to be about me, to not come from my own eyes that see and mind that reasons; if I am to make this experience about that which is outside of self. Then how? How do I take the first step, when my mind has been prewired and programmed to function as an anomaly? Can’t I just be this so called normal for once, and see in front of me, this separateness of life. To see just a dog and nothing more.