I went back inside for a moment, to pet the old dog, to say goodbye, thinking about the possibility that next week, I will help him to go. I don’t like the idea of euthanasia. His back leg is lame. His eye is chronically infected. He still comes to the door though, to say goodbye to me in the morning. His eyes still light up. 

It’s not time. I have to take him to the vet, and then bring him home, still living. 

I almost ran into my trashcan at the end of the driveway backing out in the dark. Turned left, the car behind me riding my ass at 7:09am. Still night. Totally dark. 

The song on the radio was When We Were Vampires, by J. Isbell. A lovely song. I felt good, awake and excited about the day, interested in the day. 

On the interstate, I thought about contemplative meditation and sending a spark of love upward and outward to God, about how that is what I am aiming to do when I gawk around and notice the things I am thinking about, feel my way into a singular awe and gratitude not in thoughts but in the entirety of the sensation, the scenes and images that flood my mind, pictures and movements, lands and imagined conversations. It is as though everything that ever was and everything that ever might be is compressed into a singular moment of great feeling and seeing, the stirring sense of knowing, of being a part of something, of something working in you. 

As I passed through the I 40 interchange, I saw the sky suddenly illuminate…a slanted roll of mauve bruise clouds stretching up from the west, the first hint of sunrise. 

I changed the station when the ad for the dentist came on. Listened to Michael Jackson, make that change. Felt good, and left the station on, sang aloud to the old Madonna song, remembered watching the video in the home of a friend, the room at the front of the house, pool in the backyard, a kidney shape. She lived in the subdivision, Shadowlawn. Her house sat right on top of the dirt road that used to be “our road” – the same road that we walked up to get to the railroad tracks, to cross the trestle. The same road that I watched my mother kill rattlesnakes on. La Isla Bonita. That song would never fly today, would get called out and destroyed for its obnoxious cultural stereotypes and selective appropriation. I still know all the words. 

There is a feeling I get, when I know that I am writing well, and that feeling is carried – for me – in the words. I wonder if I ought to go back through the old posts, chronologically, and pull out all the chunks of words that carry this feeling, and consider them, piece them together? 

I think I started to do that once. 

I may post more often, because doing this helps me to orient myself and cement my thoughts and intentions, to check in with myself and process through ethical and logical dilemmas, make notes on experience. 

Also, I figured out that it is super easy to direct post from the WordPress app. So, given that my use of technology has changed, the way that I post may change. I may go from longform to slightly shorter longform. From collections of writings written at different times, reflecting on experiences had, to writings sourced from the more immediate time frame, from the midst of actual experience. 

I have posted twice from on the way to work, to note experience that I would like to remember, because I learned something from it and it mattered. 

…oh, I gotta go to work.

Fortunately, I woke up right on time and got out of the house early and have time to do this. This may be a way that I begin to fit creative expression into the structure of my day. 

This morning I danced in the dining room to Prayer in C, listened to it a few times, tweeted it to the president of the United states. I don’t feel like that is extreme or strange behavior. Things being what they are. 

I feel good and calm. 

Is there really anything to say?

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