Lucy Says Happy New Year and Resolves to Fear Less

 

Did you hear that? I think it was a firecracker, which seems to be shorthand for the most terrifying thing happening in the sky that is larger than all of us and will probably consume the world so that it's our own blood that shimmers across the horizon in nightmare arcs of red and more red yet.

I see why they made a shorthand for it, haha.

But seriously, folks, it's 2013, and I, Lucy, am here to wish you well. I wish you wellness, I wish you health, I wish you safety.

Safety from every scary thing like mail/maulmen and murderous delivery folk, dogs with teeth sharper than your own, loud noises, very loud noises, very very loud noises, thunder and lightning, debris falling from outer space and flattening you on the sidewalk, thorns in your feet, unexpected noises, expected noises that don't go as planned (like a burp you thought would be maybe subtle, but is in fact resounding), broken bottles in the street, cars driving by your window, unsavory characters walking or rollerblading or biking or skateboarding by your window, dogs off leash, very tall people, mayhem in the streets, etc.

There are so many things to be afraid of. So many things to guard against! And here I am and it's 2013 and still I'm listing them, going over their every detail, the fear not just imaginary but cerebral, imbedded in my cortex.

It's funny but I think the thing I ought most fear is not, as FDR famously said, fear itself, but rather it's myself I think I fear truly.

Who I am. What I want. 

I look around and imagine myself invisible, safe, but there is no real safety in invisibility, is there? There is only falsity - the faux-dog who fake-licks your face. Who fake-barks because she is fake(?)-afraid to be herself.

That is, I am afraid of myself truly. What if you don't like the real me?

What if you reject me? The letter the mail/maulmen brings a letter of final notice, of get-the-hell-out; the thunder and the lightning seeking me, Lucy, me out of all the creatures in the world to crush and to grind to bits; loud noises actually a harbinger of death; or loud noises actually death itself, not stealthy or skulking but stomping towards me, Texas Chainsaw Massacreesque. Really it sounds ridiculous when I say it this way.

Funny how feelings and logic don't always align. Often don't.

And yet there is a knock at the door and everything inside me turns to ice. How difficult to not react in terror. How difficult to just even picture myself sitting here, quiet, letting it alone.

Well, have you guessed it? What this is, I mean, and what my New Year's resolution is? 

I want to be less nervous. Less scared, less attached, less worried, less over-thinking, and more resolute, more loving, more compassionate, more trusting, more able to listen, more patient.

To take a moment before responding to breathe and consider my options. To maybe sometimes choose to be still instead of reacting. I want to remember there is no difference between my head and my heart and my body. I want to be genuine. 

It's been such an amazing year with my Slippy and I have much (much, much, muchly, much) to be grateful for. This fear cannot rule me. It can't - in each thought, in every action I banish the tyrant Lucy who doesn't trust herself and invite in the Lucy who does; who is willing to wait. Who will stay.

The Lucy who would hold a potato chip on her nose without whining. That's the dog I want to be this year.

Well, that and a more potato-chip-eating-dog in general.

The Scarecrow is not Afraid

Some people have (unjustly) accused me of being a "fradie-cat," and a "nervous Nelly." I'm not sure what a Nelly is, but I can assure you, I am not one. I am a Lucy, a Scarecrow. My job, you see, is to scare off, not to be scared myself.

It's just that in a world where thousands of refuges seek shelter from violence in Syria. Where a Batman screening can be the scene of murder. Where a Google News search of "fear" results in 3,230,000 links. Where a search of  "injured results in 43,300,000. And a search for "death" results in 130,000,000 that I just don't necessarily feel okay with the door unlocked, yanno?

So, yeah, I'm cautious. Cautious about who I tolerate standing within 100 feet of the house (the prison guard and her boyfriend), who I befriend (Mr. Pawsley), who I open the door to (no one).

What? You think the mailman, excuse me, the maulman, looks so innocent, but what keeps him from blowing a heart shaped hole through the front door? What keeps him from barging inside and taking all that I love?

I'll tell you what keeps him from doing that. Nothing. Except me.

I'm vigilant. Some might say hyper-aware (actually they say hyper-active, but I like to think they just don't understand words and therefore choose an inaccurate synonym. Lessons on connotation, anyone?). I have a job, a duty; I have a noble calling, friends, and it is to protect.

Would that I were the police! Oh, happy life, that - when I might pull you over, reader, for each infraction. Where I might cuff you, stranger, and lock you behind bullet proof glass. Where I might sleep with a weapon by my head.

Allow me to paste the entire Emily Dickson poem "My Life had Stood - A Loaded Gun" here for you to ponder a moment:

My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him –
The Mountains straight reply –

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through –

And when at Night – Our good Day done –
I guard My Master's Head –
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow – to have shared –

To foe of His – I'm deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –

Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die –

This poem speaks to me of the emotion surging through me when I hear the barest footfall approaching my prison-house. The anger and resolve that wells up within me. Did I have purpose before this?

And my smile, reader, please take note, is most certainly Vesuvian. It cracks my face open like a sun.

Why am I telling you this? Perhaps to keep you away, to keep you out, but it's also in answer to Slippy. Did you read our last blog? The one about vacationing? (Well, and then there's also this.)

Well, if you didn't or if you've forgotten, in it Slippy tells me he loves me and I find I cannot quite reply in kind. I give him a tap dance routine, an "I need time," etc. etc. kind of thing.

The thing is?

I don't need time, not actually. The words are recalcitrant - this is the connotation I want - they disobey me. I can't quite say to him how I feel, so I say nothing instead. Coughing, I lower my head, make excuses, all while loving him, loving him. He who has given me reason. It is for him "the mountains straight reply."

My "empathic thumb." My "yellow eye."

This searching, unending, drowning kind of love where I find myself stricken, tears rolling down my cheeks as I watch him chew grass or chase Mingus. When he pisses on a fire hydrant something nameless is tapped into life inside me; it's like a universe of butterflies alighting on my liver, long golden rays of sunlight, warm sand on my belly, water in the morning, a hand on my forehead, deep silence of time passing; it is the sound of singing, bells ringing, rain storm, wind through trees, lightest kiss; it is the turning over and over of everything I believe in until there is nothing save his little gorilla's face; his floppy Mr. Pawsley ears.

But I can't tell him this with words. I say it instead with my actions. By keeping us safe and safe and safer still. I will protect Slippy from danger.

And I will scare off that horrible mailman for good one day.

The Scarecrow is Afraid and She is in Love

Luco advised me that I could use this blog-thing (or however it's referred to these days) to discuss my feelings. He said that writing might help with my anxiety.

I don't know why he cares. He has ulterior motives. He must.

However, I decided to take him up on his offer, if only because there really is a mustard seed of sense in it. Talk Therapy. Although not Talk, I suppose, more like Write Therapy or Monologue Therapy or perhaps Self Absorption Broadcasted Directly From My Trembling Heart To Your Scornful Eyes Therapy. Your Scornful Mind Therapy.

I apologize if that characterization displeases you. Honestly, it's just I've had a long couple of weeks. Months. And I can't help but see, leaning in from the periphery, the opprobrium of my peers, of strangers, of friends; the opprobrium of even the flowers and the trees and the leaves collecting on the ground. Ludicrous. But, and so, as much as I'm aware this is silly, I'm also convinced someone, some thing, some group or collective or even just an individual is out to get me. Be it the Maulman or some other such person. They are out to get me.

I feel it standing, looking out the window.

I feel it as I chase Pawsley through the backyard.

I feel their eyes on the nape of my neck as I strain forward on my leash.

On my wet nose as I drink.

On my belly as I roll over for MR to pet me.

In my heart when I thrash in my dreams and Luco rests a paw on my forehead. He seems to feel we're kindred, but I know better. No one feels the way I do.

Which is a lonely existence, yeah, so maybe Lu has a point. Do you know what the Idiot calls him? Mr. Pawsley, he calls Luco "Groucho to the Max," which for a dog of his intellectual level is quite clever, don't you agree?

Yesterday when we were outside raising some kind of a ruckus (this is my friend Pawsley's dearest activity), I found one of those Cane Toads. I know someone put it there for me to taste in my mouth. I know someone was watching.

They watched as I foamed and wriggled. As I pawed my mouth and pressed myself into the dirt.

In truth sometimes it is comforting knowing that she or he or it or they are out there, plotting. It does make me feel less lonely. Funny how they'd go to the trouble with the toad though. Those guys are gross. Luco wrote a blog about them last year.

Anyway, the world is evil, blah blah blah, and I am all alone.

Save the company of Pawlsey. And of Luco I suppose.

Luco who says he sees in me something he understands. He asked me to list for him the things I fear. I'll give you a portion, reader, so you can see what we're up against with this. What I have to work through... Although sometimes I don't think it's a thing to be fixed, but rather that this is just how things are. Luco says I have an anxiety disorder, but how does he know? From whence came his doctoral degree?

Anyway, the list:

1) The MaulMan
2) Toads of all sorts
3) Poisonous toads
4) People walking by the house which oh my god why do they do that
5) Small things
6) Large piles of clothing
7) The computer and its seductive offer of connectivity which often really just makes me feel more alone; its connectivity which raises in me a profound alienation. A nameless sadness like a song lyric I cannot remember.
8) Creepers of all sorts
9) Gumby (he is altogether too bendable - how could one ever look at him and not cower?)
10) Making references to aspects of popular culture which have long ago ceased to be of import (I am a young dog with an old soul, friends, if any one of us can be said to have a soul)

There. That's about a tenth of my list. It just goes on and on and on and on and on and.

But Luco's right, right? To try to get me to face my fears? To get me to open up, trust, reach out to the animals around me and breathe deep of their breath and not shudder when they stroke my head?

And then there's Mr. Pawsley. I never saw myself with someone like him. With another dog so carefree and stupid. So deeply joyful every morning to wake up, to be let outside, to be given food, to be taken on a walk. One only must look into his eyes and see that joy burning there, a fiery, expansive happiness.

I mean, I've really never seen anything like it. Like him. And I've never felt comfortable with another animal before. Luco, by the way, is more of a creeper. He makes me feel.... restless. Agitated. Although that's really neither here nor there.

It's Pawsley who has started this small flame in my chest.

Would that he never snuffs it out.