In the unsettling, unseasonable heat that is this first of April –
Where, fully one month too soon, the lettuce is already bolting –
Bugsy is having tummy issues again.
And I myself have fumbled into the freefloating anxiety that comes of not understanding what’s going on, and fearing the worst.
Those of you who aren’t accustomed to this state, who may have some difficulty seeing why something so obvious can still be missed, can you imagine what it’s like? To be breathing in an atmosphere of bewilderment and confusion, which springs from a lifetime of misunderstanding? Where ill ease seems to hang like a miasma, creeping into one’s very bones?
There’s a kind of beauty, in the fog that clings to the old things . . . .
. . . . but to hang out in it too long is simply – damp.
So, in reverse-engineering the changed circumstances that might have given rise to Bugsy’s current digestive embarrassment, I’m glad to say it didn’t take me too long to recall that I’m trying new treats for the boys. Fang’s fine. Bugsy’s – adjusting.
I love Bugsy. He’s a lot like me.
Yesterday I bumped into a person who, in years past, has stimulated great pain in me. She’s all, “how nice to see you.” And I’m all, unsmiling, “hello.”
She probably thinks this was all about artistic differences, and we should just let bygones be bygones.
I’m thinking this was all about trust I extended to her unwisely, improvidently – and the bitter reflux that comes when that trust is revealed unwarranted. And the feelings of shame and pariah-dom that follow.
I would love to be able to let it all go. But on the other hand, it’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Until the fog lifts. A little later in the day.
In another life, maybe.