Not a Day Goes By
I have to figure out what I want to be next.
Nature-- in this case, my mind-- abhors a vacuum.
Ergo, I'm starting to have dangerous thoughts like "Really, how hard could it be to cut my own bangs?" and "You know, let's just take the wall down and then decide what we'll do with the kitchen."
I've had Consort hide the sledgehammer and the good scissors and I've assigned myself a project; every day for a month, I have to blog. It's my Nanowrimo, only it's not 1,000 words, it didn't start 29 days ago and I'm not surrounded by a supportive group of peers, unless you count those nice people who screamed a few seconds ago "QUINN WE'VE TALKED ABOUT YOU CUTTING YOUR OWN BANGS."
Every day, I must sketch a small picture of my life. There may not be a moral, or a decent story arc or even a point. But the snow-globe which is my consciousness must be shook, and a certain chaos must be created, so that I can go back to...I don't know, showing you the wee little snowman in the middle of my brain again.
And perhaps one blog entry will be about how snow globes are an excellent metaphor but not for the creative process.
So, the dog has an injury on his foot. It's all very weird; we took a walk, he bossed around a couple of Australian Cattle Dogs, he was never out of my sight, he indicated no problems, but by the time we got home, he was limping. Close inspection of his back foot found what looked like a blister-after-the-skin-comes-off on his toe pad; he let us touch it, but wouldn't put weight on it. The kid astutely noted that it looked like a burn. Where we were walking sometimes, mystifyingly, has AA batteries strewn about; perhaps one leaked and there was enough corrosive in there to burn his paw? I took him to a friend in animal rescue who said the dog didn't need to see the vet, but said those words no dog-owner ever wants to hear:
Apply ointment to protect it. It should heal quickly, so long as it stays dry.
Because no dog has ever looked at an injury and thought "You know what that needs? Copious lashings of my saliva."
The past few days have been an exercise in denial ("The dog will stop licking his wound once I explain how that's counterproductive to healing!"), bargaining ("Here, here is a dried pigs' ear. Please apply your saliva there"), anger ("It's like you WANT to get an infection") depression ("God, that licking sound is going to be the soundtrack of the rest of my life") and, finally, acceptance. We get the Cone of Shame tomorrow.
Nature-- in this case, my mind-- abhors a vacuum.
Ergo, I'm starting to have dangerous thoughts like "Really, how hard could it be to cut my own bangs?" and "You know, let's just take the wall down and then decide what we'll do with the kitchen."
I've had Consort hide the sledgehammer and the good scissors and I've assigned myself a project; every day for a month, I have to blog. It's my Nanowrimo, only it's not 1,000 words, it didn't start 29 days ago and I'm not surrounded by a supportive group of peers, unless you count those nice people who screamed a few seconds ago "QUINN WE'VE TALKED ABOUT YOU CUTTING YOUR OWN BANGS."
Every day, I must sketch a small picture of my life. There may not be a moral, or a decent story arc or even a point. But the snow-globe which is my consciousness must be shook, and a certain chaos must be created, so that I can go back to...I don't know, showing you the wee little snowman in the middle of my brain again.
And perhaps one blog entry will be about how snow globes are an excellent metaphor but not for the creative process.
So, the dog has an injury on his foot. It's all very weird; we took a walk, he bossed around a couple of Australian Cattle Dogs, he was never out of my sight, he indicated no problems, but by the time we got home, he was limping. Close inspection of his back foot found what looked like a blister-after-the-skin-comes-off on his toe pad; he let us touch it, but wouldn't put weight on it. The kid astutely noted that it looked like a burn. Where we were walking sometimes, mystifyingly, has AA batteries strewn about; perhaps one leaked and there was enough corrosive in there to burn his paw? I took him to a friend in animal rescue who said the dog didn't need to see the vet, but said those words no dog-owner ever wants to hear:
Apply ointment to protect it. It should heal quickly, so long as it stays dry.
Because no dog has ever looked at an injury and thought "You know what that needs? Copious lashings of my saliva."
The past few days have been an exercise in denial ("The dog will stop licking his wound once I explain how that's counterproductive to healing!"), bargaining ("Here, here is a dried pigs' ear. Please apply your saliva there"), anger ("It's like you WANT to get an infection") depression ("God, that licking sound is going to be the soundtrack of the rest of my life") and, finally, acceptance. We get the Cone of Shame tomorrow.
posted by Unknown at 3:49 PM
8 Comments:
Wonderful entry ... sounds like it could have inspired a song by They Might Be Giants.
Ha ha ha! And, a month of you posting daily? Delish!
Well I am happy about this!
Not the part about your dog's foot. Sorry about that.
My blog has become the place where I post pictures of my grandchildren. They are cute and all that, but really, I haven't enough energy left at the end of the day to think a clear thought. Five grandchildren with one more on the way ought to keep me busy for a few more years or so, THEN I will try to take up thinking again.
Awesome about posting daily. That's a very cool treat for readers.
I am sorry for your doggie. I hope that he heals quickly.
My blog is like Judy's only without the pictures of grandchildren. Or words. I'm the new definition of pathetic, coming soon to a dictionary near you!
The cutting of one's own hair and the ill-advisidness of such an undertaking is a lesson that I need to re-learn every few years.
So glad you're back, no matter what the subject, seen through your eyes, it is a good read... and hope the pup heals soon!
I am catching up reading your entries. This one has me in tears from laughing.
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