Hello DS. I am at my familiar station. Blanket. Pillow. Heating pad. Cat. Who is loving heating pad. And wants to stay here forever. I want to stay here forever too. But have a grown up appt in a bit which I have to go. Have to go to.
Oh bears are here. Two. Stuffed. Sounds terrible that way...stuffed. But there they are. Not some product of a heinous big game safari. Just Bear which I bought with my mother’s credit card exactly 32 years ago along with some red leather stiletto heel boots which I wore to a queer thing on campus back when it was not safe to be queer. (Is it now?) And then a new bear, a rescue bear, from Goodwell named Mary Bob. Mary Bob is gender fluid. Named after Mary Jane, a dog I fell in love with in the neighborhood. old, disabled, like me...limped...but such a sweet presence. Just welcoming. Hello, there you are. Hello back from me. Mary Jane is no longer here in the world. But I pretend that Mary Bob greets me with the same effulgence. is that the word? I don’t know. Gentleness.
Mary Jane, the dog, looked like she had been through it all. Brave pink kerchief. But had a brave of course with her. Of course, I’m still here.
i can’t seem to do the world. My brief foray into newspapers convinced me once again that it’s not safe out there. The planet. The climate. The president. The rampant visceral racism.
But back to Mary Jane. i do that. When tears show up in my chest, I run from it sometimes. Instead of saying, “Oh honey, there you are.
I am just really trying to keep body and limb together. Made it heroically and triumphantly to my gentle Zumba class this morning only to get fairly sick in the bathroom. Okay. Sick. Minimizing does not serve me. A friend of mine used to say about traumatized animals that the fur remembers. My colon, especially (have chronic acute IBS) seems to be thinking my body is being shelled, my fur, my skin, my self. Long past when the shelling stopped. Is trauma okay to write about here? It gets all mixed up. Don’t know what room I belong in at DS. I guess on some level I feel shelled all the time. So hard to know which came the first, the trauma, or the BP, or the trauma caused by the BP and that is BP. Those desperately discordant wires in our brains we all have.
Today, I am Mary Jane. Whose story I wish I had known longer or known at all. Just you know that she was out there on the sidewalk and was showing up for whoever might be passing by. I just feel like a mess. But I’ve got my pink kerchief on.
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