Good Grief

Today I have been thinking a lot about grief, The Rolling Stones, and that book The Secret. Yeah I know, two cows driving a car, I mean WTF, right?

It all started when I noticed that most of the time I associate grief with death (duh) and so, literally tend to unite death with the image of an actual person or pet becoming deceased, I mean that is my automatic response to the concept of bereavement. Jesus, I am so fukin cheerful, huh? Anyway, I had the epiphany though that what actually happens is that we mourn the little things all of the time; grief is ongoing. This occurs so when the big things happen, we don't crater so badly. You have to let the sadness seep out a little bit at a time. You have to do stuff like watch Schindler's List or Sophie's Choice or Ishtar, or look at old pictures, or hang out with your pug (does any animal have a sadder face really?). For me lately sorrow has been a little security blanket. I have to carry it around with me so that I know it is there. I need to know it is there sort of flitting around in my guts like an anemic butterfly. I think the Stones summed it up best when the sang the following lyrics from their song Sad Day: "Someone woke me up this mornin' and I lit a cigarette. Found myself when I stopped yawnin', started getting myself dressed. Then I felt I had a dream, I remembered the things I'd seen. I could still hear the things you said with that bad dream in my head. It was a sad day."

But, why the Rolling Stones? I think only maybe one of those guys is actually dead. Well the Stones have been blasting thru every orifice in my house for about 5 freakin hours, and um, I am the kind of person that cannot take nonstop audial stimulation like that. It makes me feel panicky and nervous for one thing. I cannot keep a thought in my head. Like just now, I had something really clever to say and, oh, it is gone now. I have too many thoughts in my head already, then you got Jagger with his musical roam through hours and hours of songs--and really, who needs to hear Jumpin Jack Flash one more goddamned time? But I digress. I use my thoughts already to drown out my emotions. My heart wants to bleed, but my brain tells it to put a bandaid on that wound and shut the hell up. I cannot keep this dialog between head and ticker going with Mick yelling "It's a gas, gas, gas" mmmmkkkkaaayy?? So then I hear the song, Memory Motel and he sings: "You're just a memory of a love that used to mean so much to me. She got a mind of her own and she use it well, yeah. Mighty fine, 'cause she's one of a kind. And she use it well." I feel at once satisfied and of course sad considering my current circumstances, but all in all the line really resonates with me. Then of course Ruby Tuesday comes up in the next song or two and so I am doing OK for a bit. I had a friend in college who used say that it reminded them of me and I was always so flattered by that.

The Secret? Well you know, I started reading that book about 2 years ago when I was prepping myself for transforming my life into more of what I wanted it to be. I made all my changes happen all on my own from the inside out. You know what? Change is painful. Even positive change hurts a little. Where there is hurt, there is also grief.....and music. So now I am back full circle. Grief and unhappiness often require and inspire us to change. Change, even when positive, causes distress on some level. Most music is born of some kind of emotion, and most commonly that is sadness or hard times. So in retrospect, it all fits quite nicely together. No surprises really. The kind of disquietude that comes with metamorphosis occurs mainly because even with the best laid plans, once you start on the path of vicissitude, you cannot know for sure the outcome you will reach. This causes me to reflect on more lyrics: "You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes you just might find, you get what you need."

I know it is all going to be OK even if I have to give in to the lowest dosage of Xanax available to "take the proverbial edge off." Well yes, my edges need some Xanax. Or sandpaper.

"Mother needs something today to calm her down, and though she's not really ill, there's a little yellow pill. She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper, and it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day."

Dog Stalker

I know the noun "stalker" has come to mean something, I dunno....negative? But really if you look at the dictionary definition of the root word, stalk (hey I sort of made a plant pun there with root and stalk), well it is a downright appealing word. I will not bore you with the word by word definition, but it includes the following: stealthily, haughty, deliberate, persistent, and stiff--stiff can be good, right? Anyways, "stalk" and "stalker" are even more appealing when you are able to ignore the other descriptives like: menacing, sinister, unlawful, and my personal favorite, derangement.

And speaking of "stalk" and "stalker," I think this would be a great name for a movie, kinda like Dumb and Dumber.

Stalking however it may come into ones life can be freaking cute as hell (http://www.blueq.com/shop/114-catId.117440644_114-productId.0.html) when the persistent and deranged perpetrator is a pug. Seriously. This is my favorite thing about my dog, Iris Iona Bond. I love this animal more than my own hair color. More than my kickass Adidas Bounce black and hot pink cross trainers. More than chocolate chips stuck on a spoonful of peanut butter. OK, maybe not, but you get the idea. I soon learned that after her first vet visit, when Dr. Cruzen explained that pugs are "Velcro dogs," that he was trying to warn me. "Velcro dog" is vetspeak for "psycho killer" (quest que cest.)

Dr Cruzen should have his own show, I swear to gawd. He is like the Mr. Rogers of vets. Sits on the floor and kisses the animals on the mouth and baby talks to them while interspersing copious verbal notes to his young teenage assistants who don't even know what shorthand is but can write in text language like "fixt anl glndz b4 cutg clwz," but I digress.

So for the first, maybe....year and a half I'd say, I thought it was cute when Iris would follow me around like a shadow but more like a shadow with lots of little teeth that are clamped to your pant leg and as you walk forcing you to slightly drag them around. I delighted in her little trick of climbing on my back to hold me down while scratching at the back of my head, growling slightly if I moved. Or breathed too deeply. Or had a thought that was too loud. I know...C-R-E-E-P-Y.

Then one day I was sitting, chillaxin, reading, and looked down to glance upon the warm, fat ball of canine at my feet only to find that she was gazing back up at me, transfixed on my face, glaring into my eyes, nostrils flaring slightly as she heaved quietly. I knew in that moment, that she was saying "I love you, but if I had opposable thumbs, I'd kill you. I'd kill you, cut you up and put you in the deep freeze." It was very puts-the-lotion-on-its-skin. It was only then that I could really see how one could come to enjoy having a stalker. I became aware in an instant that even though they pretend not to, celebrities kind of like it when strangers dig thru their garbage and masturbate in their bushes--I mean who wouldn't?

Oh, I need to make a clarification, or suffer the consequences, but when I referred to my pug as "fat" above, I really mean "large boned", "with winter coat", and "retaining water".