A mind is a terrible thing. I needed to get that out of the way.
Dunhill deluxe navy rolls and Fuente château maduros are fine smoking. That too needed to be cleared from my cache.
This is an entry responding to notes public and private.
Over the last year I have been asked about getting another dog, the whens, whys, wherefores and the suggestion that perhaps I need one. To the latter I can only say yes, to the former several I don’t know. I am permanently temporary, that doesn’t sound right and yet it’s an acceptable form to be, a state of being, and so, yes, I am. I don’t know what I will do when I’m done here in part because of the tremendous sorrow of what being done here will mean. A very real possibility is that I will wander the earth.
As if to prove my point the ancient dachshund starting mooing at the top of the attic stairs. He needed to pee. Like a child the needs of the dog come first. They don’t have to, but they do; I don’t understand any other way of doing things. I have this feeling I’m going to need a grace period, a period where I’m not responsible for anyone else. I might be mistaken.
It segues into another entry. Stories I haven’t told because they aren’t very interesting. Brushes with the law as a minor, very silly brushes, but ones that involved someone’s parents being called. One time my buddy J and I were “running away from home” made it to the other side of Lansing and was picked up by cops. They were kindly and a bit patronizing, mostly, though, concerned for our safety. I never told either the cops or J that by that age I’d traveled much further than twenty miles on my own. J’s dad picked us up. The ride home was quiet but tense. His dad dropped me off at my parents’ house, told me to take care and to be safe. I walked to my girlfriends.
The time my folks picked me up the cops were not concerned for our safety and were actually holding us on charges of curfew violation. A friend of J and mine had been kicked out of his parents’ house. We were consoling him and helping him figure out what to do. We were in the stairwell of a parking garage at MSU and someone who had parked there at around four in the morning figured we were car jackers. Although we were quiet for the first hour or so in custody I fabricated the story that we were staying at my folk’s house and the time had slipped away. My dad worked at the university and was well known. My dad was chatty when he picked us up and my mom made us breakfast. The friend who was kicked out of his home was a bit embarrassed and, after eating, made some excuse and left.
The third time wasn’t even trouble, my friend L his car stalled in a busy intersection and because the insurance was in his dads name his dad was called by the tow truck driver. Though it was a short ride his dad read me, L and J the riot act, how J and I were leading his son down the road to ruin and were bad influences and he would have none of it. I said something about how my evilness didn’t make the car stall; it was probably carbon buildup in the carb. He went into a rage and I think that soft elderly deacon was going to hit me. It would have been bad for everyone. He didn’t. He slammed on the brakes and insisted I got out. I had a whole block to walk to my parents’ house. I went to a girlfriend’s house.
I suppose there are a few more haredawg in trouble with the man stories as a minor. Most of them are boring traffic stories, two of which aren’t that boring but take a long set up. On is more of the law being in trouble with me. That’s an extensive story and one that takes more energy to tell and even more energy to for things like surety, discretion and insight. It’s a story that, in a certain light, might explain a lot about what was to be my future, but it doesn’t, not really. Also, in this place and this time there are people who could be affected by my telling it again. I had to tell the story once to shrink as a condition of a certain clearance I needed. The shrink had a lot of questions and ultimately was a little too sympathetic; I mean I was uncomfortable with how much of her detachment she sloughed off. Oddly enough over the course of a decade or so I kept running into that shrink at various conventions and social gatherings. We always fabricated a story as to how we knew one another.
As an adult --- I either have never committed a criminal act (not like I did as a kid, though we really were in violation of curfew) or have never gotten caught. If the latter is true it might also be true that my excuse is the worst kind; I did/do what I did/do for the greater good. I mean it’s possible that I’ve taken a shortcut or two, hypothetically the kind I’d never be able to claim plausible deniability for, because I needed to pursue the intent of a law and the letter of the law got in the way. Those of you that makes sense to know exactly what I mean, those that it doesn’t make sense too let’s stick with what a solid citizen I am.
Oh, I suppose I have a lot of dull speeding ticket stories an adult too. Couple of parking tickets, maybe a failure to declare citation. None of this has anything to do with a dog or dogs.
Truth is I’ve had a lot of tales tickling my mind (a terrible thing, established in the thesis, proved in the body) that I haven’t quite grabbed a hold of, and writing this is, hopefully, a bit like cleaning off a desk and filling the ink well, whereas it’s not exactly writing the mind ticklers it is preparing a space for them.
Among the things I’ve been thinking about is; Colloidal silver, Skinwalkers, Declension and a guy who wakes up in a bathtub full of ice in Budapest and discovers a third kidney has been implanted in him and both his tonsils and appendix have been replaced. It would be easy to treat those like flash Friday prompts and just do the sort of grain of an idea and fingers of fury approach. I keep expecting the ideas to gel. They are three distinct tickles.
Very soon I should be divorced through the long process of legal neglect. I’ve been pretending that has something to do with the permanent temporary feeling, but it hasn’t, not really. It’s more like cleaning up after a party; cigarette butts in champagne flutes and puke on the sofa and a throbbing in the head that sounds like techno/house music from the turn of the millennium.
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