When I walk up in the morning I make a very strong stretch as I try to pump the blood into the recesses on my comatose body. The sleeping giant likes to stretch in the morning because it invigorates the mind body and soul. If I had more room I would stetch the morning cobra stance and great the sun and the day, this day which feels more like Sunday but is actually Mon Aug 3 2009. The day is overcast a little cooler than yesterday but fresh from the smells of the cut grass. The sound of an early morning lawn mower pushed by my landscape wannabe son. As I am one of many lawns to be done this day before the rain. The droning in the background reminds me of all my summers here in this great place, this great big or as Bob and Doug MacKenzie would say "Great White North" made in the shade and darn too cold Canada. Yes we will make social programs better than Sweden's; one day! We need to believe
that nothing is stronger than our love!
Seriously,I doubt that the garbage collection will be today. It is the Civic holiday. I can never tell if the garbagemen (yes, I still call them garbagemen as I do not see any garbagewomen moving up the rants of sanitary engineer department). When I got the stretch done, I sit upright slowly hoping that as I stabilize and make readjustments; the body to the day. Crack! What was that? 50 years? Sounds as sesmeic as the great big crack opening up and swallowing my soul. No wonder I sit and pray on the side of the bed each day, at least lately since turning that turning point of no return, no gain.
As I sit on the side of my bed this morning, I realize I am awake, reflect back on that feature, as my dream-state would rather think I am this all-seeing amoebic blob of a collective conscious, which was great cause the pain of life really sucks. As I awaken today; the dreamer to the dream, all my flesh is made aware of what "Jane" is or should be, and she definitely is not an amoeba collective unconscious yet. Jane becomes me, my whole collected dreams and experiences mold into this amazing being, the spot dot that says here is Jane. Halleluia! Halleluia!
This day I pray to thank God for another day, and say my usual Catholic prayers, One Our Father and Three Hail Marys. As my dutiful prayers are then placed upon the altar I then head to the washroom and freshen up. Usually I wake up before 7:30 am as I have to get the garbage out by then. However, I had slept in last Monday and forgot to put out the garbage in time. Not this week! I made sure I had the garbage and recyclables by the roadside last evening at dusk.
It was the darker side of dusk so no one would see me putting out the ungainly trash. However a youthful jogger did happen to jog by the house at that exact moment of my stealth but apparently she not happen to notice me, or at least her jog-by body language seemed intelligent enough to pretend not to notice me. Begrudgingly, I did the dirty thing, I put out the garbage.
Where the heck are my boys when I need them? I scream to the gods of retribution. No one answers my screaming. Why does this have to happen to me? Why does this always happen to me, week after week, making me weaker and weaker, bent back, salmonella-covered the hand-sanitizer may not be good enough. I will have to take a second bath or shower, hopefully first, and then a long bath to soak away the filth, and replenish my weakened muscle with the sea-salt bath water. I will change my clothes and make sure they do not touch anything so I do not cross-contaimant anything. All these germs, bacteria, viruses, wholly made to kill me. Why cant there be good bacteria (there is now!) and viruses that make me into some Love goddess of power and might?
Why does this garbage job always seem to place on me, put in my lap, all over my hip that covers the garbage there from it's weighty heaviness that tells me; my garbage is heavier and stronger than me. No! I shall defeat this! Gargage is not my destiny! No kind of garbage will be my destiny, not the physical kind, the emotional kind, nor the soulfully spiritual kind either! Maybe all this garbage left overs from life lived is a philosophical paradox. It is something to be rationed with and balanced out to be thought of before it happens so there is a game-plan in place to secure the right I have over the trash messing up my life to any degree. Let's face it; we all have trash, we have to deal with it so it doesnt take over the ship. And who is at the helm, who is in control? The master/mistress of destiny. So lets be garbage detectors and then sort out before it can no longer be sorted out to any degree. Especially in the degree of summer heat the stench of Toronto's 8 week garbage strike has striken me with odourous garbage smells from hell. The old incinerators smelt of that greasy fire smell I remember when those fired up stacks were churning out that city's garbage way back when in the 60's.
Maybe it is all due to the complexity of garbage and recycling that I am the "one" who is "elected" to this job. Nobody can do it quite like me. I have power over my garbage and garbage from others. After walking the dog this morning I noticed someone had dumped a huge industrial strength, HD heavy duty garbage bag in my side acerage. What to do? It is a crime! Those dumpers! If I call the city and ask them what to do? It is a police matter now. I will not touch the bag although I notice a 20 cent beer can in the sliced side of the bag. This beer can offering is not enough to make me bend towards the earth to seize the can and the day with all the returns of the day from the Beer Store (formerly called the L.C.B.O.). Remembering the previous offerings to my son, the beer-bottle collector between landscape jobs indeed The Village Called: They Want Their Idiot Back! This left for my son at the corner of his beer can route, this sponge-covered insult on a beer bottle. How strategically placed these planned left-over cans to be returned for cash. There truly is gold in them thar hills! God IS good!
Yet I always feel this deed so beneath me, what am I? Am I just a procurer and provisioner of trash, a diva of garbage day? Is this my lot in life, is this my claim to fame? Is this all I will remember, this slight, the hurt, the recoils, the rehurls, the refurls the curtain coming down?Is this very thing telling me what I already know? "From shat and to shat I shall return". It is prophetic in a way and I think this very act allows me to connect to my dusty asheness. My inevitable demise and return to the simple molecular sustance of stardust I am.
Begrievously I put out the garbage and I have those hateful eyes I hate to admit I sometime have when I must do something I loath. Why this hate? So much hate for something which we must admit, is a hell on earth; garbage. It is something which has a face to hate; garbage. All humans detest it because it, if left to it's own devises will certainly kill us like Dr. David Suzuki's fruit flies. Yet as I feel it derides the very best of me and turns my beautiful Monday into a dasterdly day from the pits of hell. Out of embarrassment or kindness the slender skinny-jeaned young lady did not look my way. I couldnt even offer one of my half-smiles, my chagrin smirk. This day does odd things to me and makes me feel less in control of the me I want to be, and I must push through this day as I had pushed through three beautiful children into this world. Trash must be made to be good for us! But what is good for us, we must balance the good and bad somehow since we have a dictomous world that needs the yin-yang balance to work and function. Let us be aware of this, and realize this formula because this is what we are dealing with. It all does balance out in the end; to make new beginnings?
After the freshening up in the "loo" I head out to the great outdoors. Walking my dog, or doogie houser first thing as he always whines to go out and often wakes me up to do his duty. That's his nickname of the day, the many beloved names for my pet is reminescent of the love I have for my pooch. The unconditional love thing is so real and that is why humans connect that fido love they often miss from the significant others in their lives.
The pause that refreshes, and my dog paws tapping at the door howling by now, the need to pee being that much stronger than any known force known to man. And as always, that wonderful feeling of love always refreshes itself with each day, a new way of being, a new way of feeling love. Always I treat him like a baby, one of my babies. As I do tend to spoil the pooch as well as fawn over him and relate as a human to the beast, I am not alone. My other significant being, my other half of the one flesh we have become through osmosis and proximity. "And the two shall become One Flesh". How amoeboid of God! Yes, this smoothering on of love does the same; it enriches our wellbeing of the soul because our souls need so much love. I often wonder if God meant "One Flesh" being "One Soul" as well. Suppose that depends on how far the flesh gets to the soul. Surely there is a melting and melding of all that is in that pot. God's a great cook!
Too much more of a spoiling effect The Flesh has on the dog. Both of us vying for that pretentious position of being the dog's "one" his "only" his "Master". We all know that the dog will always side with the man as the boss and be much more fidelis to the male counterpart. Yet the dog is so protective of the female unless the male is weaker and then the dog tends to protect both equally like King Solomon a most wise judge of character and divine retributive justice. Don't fight over that tv guide or the dog will put his entire mouth over your face and suggest the next action. The warning the dog is so good at that, most would just complete the action and be done with it. Dog's are smarter than us if they are aware of this warning system. Dog's not taking sides in seemingly unseemly action. Dogs just know. They are smarter than we would like to admit.
Since the dog whisperer I am not, not being able to tell the dog I am the boss, this perhaps does not make me the best candidate for leadership roles. Maybe I would rather have the dog rule my life than life rule my life. That dog is so smart it is scary and at the same time he can be so stupid, like a dumb blonde. Even though the dog is idiotic, I can wholly relate to this, and would much fear his permanently leaving me so suddenly. Often I become maudlin on garbage day as all this garbage comes out of the woodwork, and I recall and recount my many breaking point life lessons. A nightmare, it isnt fair, and I do care, maybe far too deeply to make any sense of it all. When you have the recipe for life, you'll let me know? Maybe just one kiss will do! You don't get it cause you don't get it!
As I have always wondered how all this works, how all the pieces fit together to make a consistent whole or hole? The dictomy of life! Ah, there's the rub; a little to the left, please. Yes, we need to figure all this out before it swallows us completely up, but you know, if we really do have power over our inevitable, it is only through the miraculous and we must give credit to the Divine. We are the Divine's hand-maidens. Many of you would feel this leaves you without the element of control. Really? Please let me know if you have any control at all over all this, please! If you do have that information, at least put it on a blog, would you? Thank-you!
We were having a heck of time with fleas this year, but finally they are under control.Flea bath works somewhat. We need to get the flea shot again as it did not last a year. Since we live near the beach the sandfleas from the sand and from the rampant deer that live here probably is the reason as to the massive infestation lately. These horribly nasty vector agents certainly do get under the skin, literally. It makes me question life again. What possible benefit would fleas provide the world. Please, the flea circus is not enough of a reason to allow these beasts dominion over my Dominion. These pirates continue to invade and diminish our control over the big picture. When we have anything out of control, we need to find that thing to make things function, for things to go smoothly for we feel we were not put here to merely fight off the onslaught of the blue nasties.
The mosquitos where out in full force today, in the a.m and evening the squeeters really like to suck the juice out of me. For some reason one used their protuberant sword-nose on my right hand. I seem to get ticked at being bit. I slapped the stinging thing and I got him. He only left a small round raised blistered and itchy like heck skin. Is it a habit from childhood that I would relieve the itch with spit and rub? Maybe I could sell my saliva for an itch-killer. Could be I have something in my spit that could save the universe? Doubt it.