Way-finding (verb) cultural and personal practice; 1. To plot a course between two points of departure and destination…
I’m in the middle of leaving a house of nine years and perhaps a country that has been a home for twenty – and so I shouldn’t be surprised to find myself stressed-out, disjointed, twitchy-limbed and generally disassociative. Manically ordering things into Keep, Kill, and Give Away boxes, before a memory in a bare kitchen forces you to resort said boxes. Moving is, I have realized, doing the Shell Game thing with your entire life.
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Sometimes I wonder if depression, mood-disorders and the like aren’t a product of some aberrant neuron, but instead live inside the senses. Like my creator set the Gain controls in my ears too high; and with eyes permanently switched to Ghost Recon Threat Level. My tongue too readily recalls the taste of sweet things, which I constantly seek to replicate.
Maybe our body is the House of Spirits, and some of us are haunted too easily.
You wake up before I do – you always did, and by the time that I’m blinking away the night’s dreams, you already have your heavy paw on my chest. But like me you’re not so awake yet, either. You might grumble and growl and try to call me back to bed but you’re not so tough – yet. I get an hour or two before I start to feel the fluttering in the cavity behind my ribs; or the lump in the back of my throat.
An hour or two to get the house in order, to feed the animals and to snuff at the day. It’s not enough but it has to do. You and me, we can make this work.
Me and my dog. If you look out for me, you know I’ll always be here for you.