Careful

I wonder.

What is feeling, exactly? I don't mean touch. I mean that something inside you, that makes you happy or sad. Sometimes, it's a terrible thing, a terrible something that can really make a man sick, and I wish I could live without it.

It's like, I attach all these great "feelings" to Stella, but then, as she lays dying, these "feelings" are made terrible because I know that I'll miss them and I'll miss her. What I feel is nostalgia. Nostalgia doesn't get anyone anywhere. It is a dark space. Nostalgia is another way of saying, "I wish..."

I can't make butter today. I can't do anything, except hold Stella. Warden knows that something's wrong. He's been unusually quiet. He hasn't even touched his food, which is a first, and his nose is dry.

Sometimes, you think you're close to figuring it out. You're given the key. The door is waiting. You open the door, and there's another door, and you need to find another key all over again.

"Listen!" Stella says with her eyes.

"Tell me!" I say.

"Careful."

"What?"

"If not now. Then later."

Stalling.

I tried to keep my mind occupied today. I made some plain butter this morning (sometimes purity is the way to go) and drank so much coffee I couldn't walk straight. I started reading Dangling Man by Saul Bellow. Homes has been telling me to read it for a while now. It's not picking me up.

I had to go see my probation officer. She kept asking me why I was shaking so much. Too much coffee, I said. I think that's why I was shaking. I'm sure she could tell I'm not in a good way. I felt bad. I don't think I ever come across as a very happy person, even when I'm happy. I can only imagine what people think about me when I've got the heavy stuff on my mind.

I got home and watched a few of my favorite movies. I watched Life is Beautiful. I watched The Seventh Seal. I watched Live Free or Die Hard. I wrote a poem. I threw the poem away. I wrote another.

I can't tell if it is painful for Stella to go out or not. I hate that. If these are to be her final days, I'd like her to be happy, but I'm afraid that everything I try to do for her might just bring her more pain. For the first time in her life, I'm not sure that she knows what she wants, either. I'm going to go watch The Last Temptation of Christ. That'll get me going:( Remember, Jesus was a Cross Maker.

and how you looked after it

Your Dog Dies

it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.



Raymond Carver



I will have to decide, shortly, what to do about Stella.

After a full morning of tests, the vet found that Stella has GDV, or gastric dilation volvulus. Although Stella can undergo surgery, the vet says that the surgery is tricky and that there is a 1 in 3 chance that Stella could die. Should I have Stella undergo surgery and possibly die? Or should I have the vet put her down, peacefully? My head feels like it's going to explode.

The poem above was written by Raymond Carver, a 20th century American writer who wrote about real people in real places with real problems. I completely understand what Carver's conveying in this poem. Life is pain. Things happen. Terrible things. And we reform ourselves accordingly, and for a brief moment, we trick ourselves into believing that pain is necessary in order for positive change to occur. And just when we believe this, we are haunted by pain, marred by its ugly revelation, and thrown into the spectral void of darkness.

I'm tired of this cycle.

Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by death. It waits for me to make itself a joke and I'm never in the mood for laughing. Even though Stella is a dog, she is part of my family and I love her. She is not my significant other, but she is one of my companions, and if she dies, she will take with her a part of my being.

I called Guy after I spoke with the vet and he told me that maybe it's not as serious as it sounds. Then, he told me that I should pray. I haven't prayed in a long time, not since my sentencing. Why should I start now? If God was God, would he listen to my pleas? I would ignore me if I was God.

What does Stella want me to do? Has she given up?

I don't want to rely on prayer.
I don't want pain to take me by surprise.

Stella will sleep, peacefully.

Stella

Guy thinks Stella has an abdominal tumor. She has had some bathroom issues lately, and this morning she was throwing up blood. I have a vet appointment tomorrow afternoon. She's six years old; this doesn't seem fair.

The Ghost approved my vacation, but I'm not sure whether I should even take it now.

I think God hates me.

Vision quest!

Well, I made up my mind today. I'm going to talk to the ghost tomorrow about getting a week off sometime in early spring to go on a vision quest. I have some seeking to do. Anybody know any good places to get away from it all? Guy will be happy to take care of the dogs, so I don't have to worry about that. Do you run into a lot of people hiking on the Appalachian Trail? Maybe I'll go on a canoe trip up the Youghiogheny River. So many choices! God will help me figure out what to do. Something to look forward to, for sure.

My Dad's great grandfather was an American Indian. So I'm part Indian. He grew up in upstate New York. I wonder if he went on a vision quest?

I was off today, and it was a good day. I made some cilantro lime butter and tried to make some homemade tortillas. They don't look so good, but they taste alright. I like Mexican food. I watched The Bridge on the River Kwai for like the hundredth time this afternoon. I know it's a good movie, but I don't know why I like it so much. A bunch of captured British soldiers, building a bridge for their Japanese captors. Building it better than even the Japanese were trying to make them, just out of pride. If you're going to do something, do it right, I guess is the moral of that part of the story. Then Alec Guinness (the leader of the British soldiers) has to decide whether to help destroy it to help out the Allies, or save it because he and his men worked so hard on it. It always makes me emotional for some reason. When I cry, Warden won't stop licking my face.

I finished a bottle of Kentucky Gentleman Bourbon my Grandpa gave me, and took the dogs for a long walk. They deserved it.

Vision

Do you ever get the feeling that you have an overwhelming amount of things to do first thing in the morning? There's no time for coffee. Your heart is already racing. You are propelled out the door, time is moving too quickly, things are breaking that should not break, the weather is not cooperating, you've got something caught in your eye, you can't find a parking spot, you've stapled the wrong pages together, your handwriting has changed, your fingers smell like pennies, the bathroom is closed for cleaning, the water in the water fountain is warm.

I don't. I never feel this way.

I wake up and deliver papers. I make butter. Sometimes, I play chess. Sometimes, I call Rick. Once in a while, Guy will stop by to say hi and if I'm feeling ambitious, I'll drive to Steubenville to visit Dad.

My heart hasn't raced in a long time. I always have time for coffee.

I don't want to be stressed or overwhelmed, but I want to have a sense of purpose. Sometimes, I think purpose is an empty concept.

"There is a fundamental human need for guiding ideals that give meaning to our actions"-Roger Fisher.

I guess I'm trying to figure out what my actions are exactly. If there is no meaning to what I do, does that mean that I do not act? Have I died, figuratively? Is this all a crock?

Homes once told me about his vision quest. If you don't know what a vision quest is, check it out here.

Homes said that he wandered for two days through forests, mountains, and valleys, until he finally entered into a field and sat in this field for two days. Then, Homes said he had a vision that was very special to him and would remain so and that I had trust him, that his vision led him to be the person he is today.

I think I need to go on a vision quest.

Something must mean something.

1.1.10

"Action is character", Homes used to tell me over and over.

Today, I worked, and then came home and did nothing. Or, I meditated. I stewed in my own juices. Today, I am a balloon filling full of air. Tomorrow, I burst.

Judee Sill said, "the further down you go to get your momentum, the further it will propel you."

So, today, I am recharging. I am digging deep, and tomorrow, a new Curt G. Jimenez. A renaissance.

Judge me by what I do. Action is character.

Happy new year.