Rough Red Meat Between Teeth

Dinner is done.  Corned beef and carrots and potatoes, courtesy of my Beloved One’s unpredictable and very Irish craving.  Quite tasty.  Nummy for my tummy, teasing on the tongue, and a royal pain in the anal cavity for my teeth!  But such is the nature of life as a human carnivore. 

And now I plop me down to rest in my red chair.  Pipe in my teeth, scrumpy at my elbow.  (I do hope I won’t knock it down and spill it.)  To my bloggery I go, for as much as I’ve become seduced by Twitter recently, I do suspect the truest twitterers tweet on the go from cellular gadgets.  I have no such gadgetry about me, so I’ll go about expressing myself in the modern age in the old fashioned way: with more than 150 characters on my blog.

. . . . .

The boy with the budding Buddha belly

 One of the commercials for the upcoming television show Parenthood says, “Parenthood is understanding why some animals eat their young…”  I appreciate that.

Sweet Wag—as I call the lad; Falstaff’s name for Hal—is keeping us company again.  What’s more, today it has been more or less good company.  My first impression of Sweet Wag came when I was talking with his Mother in her garage.  He inconspicuously passed beyond his Mother’s line of sight, and picked up a battery operated hand drill, striding tall and laughing towards one of the cats.  In those first months, I also saw him throw furniture at his twin siblings, beat his noggin against the wall until something other than his own will stopped the cadence, and set things on fire.  He’s come a long way since then.  He now minds his place to the extent that he knows how.  He gives us all random gifts at least once a day.  He apologizes for his anxious habits, and politely identifies what bothers him.  In the past he’d just say “I’m stronger than you”, and toss an Atlas at your head.  The biggest problems he brings to daily life are his phobias of immense things—like high ceilings or tall buildings—his wolfish thirteen year old appetite, and his (yes, I’ll say it!) rather off-putting lack of table manners. 

“I’m thirteen, mom!” he’ll say, when he wants to get his way.
‘Then why can’t you chew with your mouth closed, since you’re eating everything in the house?’ I’ll think to myself.

Yes, I confess, I’m a terrible fellow.  A grumpy, festering bastard who’s not quite so openhearted as the mayor of Munchkin city.  Be that as it may, Sweet Wag impresses me. 

Call me harsh and hard of heart, but he does.  There is no way around how far he’s come.  No denying either that some part of him recognizes it took effort to travel from there to here, from then to now.  And when considering that, in sight of the puzzle that he is; the mind of a nine year old trapped in a ragingly pubescent thirteen year old body; I can’t help but find the notion of ‘recognizing and respecting struggle’ hopeful.

. . . . .

From there to here 

It can be a long road sometimes, up and out of one’s hiding places.  Most of the time, there are false exits on that road.  You’ll begin to feel a bit better, and then just as you think you’re about to return from your underworld, it’s not unusual for something or someone to kick you back down into the bog. 

At the moment, I am feeling well.  I’m noticing my thoughts flowing more freely, my inhibitions and masks have shed a layer or two.  I’m taking more responsibility to get what I want, and exerting less patience for the petty things that bother me.  That is all good.  It means I’m far down the road to a lighter state, a more carefree and a jolly state, and I would welcome that.  I’m smoking my pipes again, as I did once upon a time when I felt a bit more balanced.  And I’m successfully over the two week mark of an existence without cigarettes.  That is also a good sign. 

I just hope we all continue in our climbs up toward the light.  I’ve lost my footing one too many times, to not fear the fall.

Oh piss it, look!  I’ve sneezed my emotions all over you.  I’d offer you a towel, but I’m not sure who you are or where you’re reading from, and my arm likely wouldn’t reach.  Forgive me? 

. . . . .

A U2 commercial on the television, sponsoring Blackberry.  I’m gonna go crazy if I don’t go crazy tonight…

Good juju.

 

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009