Monday, August 9, 2010

Doggy anxiety dreams.

Walking through a crowded festival jammed with booths and vendors and people surging randomly, I move with the dogs. Ahead is the place I need to be.

I enter a cluttered shop with busy people and try to grab someone's attention.

No one sees me. I apparently can't make enough noise. Miniature but real dogs are at my feet with heads thrust toward me like bottle brushes.


I'll spit out the rest of this dream once the sour pasty sensation fades. The dream has stayed with me all day today like trying to dissolve a penny like a hard candy.


The smell of copper and flaking rust fills the car where Lily bled, but we are OK now. My creativity is asleep today and pissing me off. I see it all in my mind but no words come except, show, don't tell, but all my little writer's paintbrushes hit the page with splats and stains. No beautiful letters come out.


Anyway, the dogs are OK today my back hurts it's making the backs of my thighs numb my mood sucks I want to yell I should not drive in this mood but am oddly sympathetic to others having a bad day. I just don't want to help. I want to crouch down and wait for the searchlight I recognize in their wild eyes to pass overhead and away, seeking comfort or understanding or relief or a target elsewhere.


When I was a little kid with emotions chugging, I was too small to understand anything. To stop and assess myself and my feelings was as beyond me as adulthood and jobs cars bills and the right to decide if I could stay up late. As a kid I would pick a fight. I think I did this so I had a place to direct my overloads. I still do it now. Extreme bad moods or frustration anger whatever infuse me with the horrible ability to reach out into the scene around me and dig my nails into its placid surface, then rip and shred it apart.

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