Caterwauling

I dreamed for just a few moments that I was able to connect with Source.

I call it Source because I’m not sure it’s God. Certainly I’m open to returning to Source and finding it’s God. But for now, I really hope that I’m not returning to the patriarchy.

When I pray or, more likely, ask for things, I try to address God, Goddess, ancestors, spirit guides, angels and any entity that’s helping me.

Collectively, I consider that Source, as I suppose it’s not a tangible place but rather a celestial fun house of characters that rotates.

In any event, about a year and a half ago, I decided it’s pointless to hate how one looks. (Self, of course. Others ain’t my business.) There are throngs of people who wish they had your healthy body, even if something about it causes you consternation.

Early this morning, as my fur children found something new to destroy, I found myself apologizing to Source.

I really don’t hate this life, I said. I rather enjoy it. I just SAY it all the time because it feels like somebody or something is always pissing me off or treating me in a way that is less than I deserve.

Imagine my surprise when I was scrolling through the Faceypage Memory Hole and saw this from five years ago …

Right now, I’m back to being afraid to be happy. Afraid to make doc appts. Afraid to skip town. Afraid to breathe wrong lest yet another decision backfires in a big way.

And I thought, if I just kill myself, I don’t have to deal with this.

Calm your tits if you’re rejoicing. Pissing off the fuckers in my feed is reason enough to live.

I wondered if I had that short, hazy dream with Source to prepare me for this. That it’s a fine life. Don’t let sucky situations distract you from that.

After all, what will Source say when we finally arrive?

* You had X number of years on that blue marble, and all you wanted to do was get off?

* You had free will and lamented not having it?

* Sure, you didn’t have money when you had time. Then you didn’t have time when you had money. Then you spent all your money to make the existential angst go away. How’d that work out for you.

* What are you going to miss doing from your human-suit days? What did you never do that you’ll never get the chance to do now?

Basically, what on earth must my guides, ancestors, angels and interested celestial parties think of me now … and what would they say if they hang around long enough to meet me when I cross back into their land?

More important, what are they saying now that can help me strut over to them someday to say, “Thanks for helping me have such a good life that I hate to leave it/am so happy to be leaving it because I had it all”?

I heard this phrase in “White Lotus.” The fabulous, murdering gays spoke of Tanya blooming late in life.

I don’t know that Tanya ever bloomed. She really only wised up for 10 minutes out of two seasons.

Then she hit her head off a tender and her philandering husband inherited her half-billion-dollar fortune. Which partially went toward paying off the palazzo where she had one wild, coke-fueled night.

Isn’t that life, though? I spent all season pondering and researching all the symbolism, only to lose the plot when the heroine died a stupid, preventable death.

SPOILER: She literally foiled her own murder plot … and murdered the murderers … and fucking HIT HER HEAD as she left the boat.

I mean, not the dumbest bitch I’ve ever seen. But definitely in the top three.

Got me to thinking about how one stupid move can end you.

I have this creature I’ll call Barkley. Barkley was bark, bark, barking all day.

I speak bitch fluently, after four years of having my socials stalked and critted by one. So I can bark, bark, bark right on back.

My hope is that they will go find a dog house that’s not within my line of sight.

But they get rewarded with treats and rides in the car and free run of the house. So I don’t see Barkley getting re-homed.

Despite the pampering, Barkley runs half the other pups out of the house and chases the rest into the corner.

The medium and little dogs who haven’t been euthanized don’t like playing with Barkley. But they know it will get bored and go bully another pup soon enough.

This medium pup wonders if I’m going to get rabies by trying to play with this big dog. Or disembowled.

If I rub Barkley’s nose in its own poop, maybe it will stop lifting its leg on my porch. Or maybe it will lick enough poo-poo off its face that it will decide not to do that anymore.

It took me 30-ish years, but I’m finally sick enough of cleaning poo-poo that I’m going to throw it back.

There’s probably more power, and certainly less danger, in letting these dogs choke themselves on their chains.

But damn it feels good to give them a little yank.