Sleepy Thoughts on Patty the Dog and Other Things
Posted on Apr 5th, 2008
by 
kcidybom
kcidybom
Is that Patty Again?
I'm in the woods, almost sleeping, in my portable woods-womb, a mummy (ha!) sleeping bag of prodigious insulating capability. Trees creak in the middling wind, icy puffs of air blow across my face, but my body is sublimely warm. It's one of the most sensual of experiences, the juxtapositions of warmth and cold and the sound of the wind through the trees. The tactile and auditory wham-whispering "You're alive, you're alive!" In a sudden moment the ice-air is replaced with moist warmth, kind of living smelling. Then a tongue, I know it's a tongue, slides slippery rough across my cheek. I think it's either a boyhood fantasy - I'm with boys after all, maybe I picked something up over the aether - or else I better open my eyes and explore. I choose the latter. It's Patty, the neighborhood black Lab who occasionally visits us to practice her wilderness skills. She looks at me, looming black and huge in the dark, but I see her tail wagging in the starfield. She licks my face again, then backs away an inch, scrunches herself up, and full-on sneezes in precisely my direction. I now have a fine coating of dog-goo on my woodsy stubble. She licks my face again, by way of apology I guess, and asks to join me in my bag. She does this by sticking her nose in beside my head and trying to follow with the rest of her body. I convince her that there isn't room for a gerbil in my bag when I'm resident. She sighs in inevitable surrender and curls up next to me. I throw my arm over her and cover her with my fleece. She's happy about this and we cuddle the night away.
It's 02:30 and I think of other things as I drift toward my dreams.
I think sometimes that sirens are other than metaphorical, even when they are intended as metaphor. I thought 'more than' at first but that leads down the wrong path. Funny how a 'siren' is a Greek mythological creature who lures men to their destruction, a temptress, a mechanical device that screams 'get out of my way,' and a pelvisless amphibian. We confuse and illuminate with language at the same time.
Writing is like shouting into a dark room. You never know who's listening, and if they are, you don't know if they understand. I think about the difference between 'having to' and 'wanting to' write. Those who 'have to' don't care if anyone is listening, but if they believe someone is listening the writer obsess over the quality of the communication.
The universe is folded over on itself, nothing but geometry. It gets a little fuzzy when you realize that 'space' doesn't exist, only spacetime, because that means that time is folded over on itself too. Writing taps experience (write about what you know about), and experience is gleaned. Writing then pulls something from the past and plops it down smack dab into the now. It's an iterative process, a giant feedback loop, and sometimes the loop is sticky and you get caught like a fly in amber.
I wonder about obsession, and watch the tendrils of me unwind.
I sleep.
In the dim morning gray I hear growling. I sit up to see if Patty is okay. She's sound asleep, still chasing dream rabbits, and the growling is just my stomach. I'm hungry and get up to start another day.
Access: Public
culture
July 2008 
like you i often wonder about words… there are words with fifteen or more meanings… take the word love… parental, child, brother, sister, lover, friend, ice cream, movie… love love love sometimes we have no idea what it means anymore… love you :)
Yup…And some meanings with dozens of words. Love back at ya…;-)
What a great story. I was totally captivated in remembering. Such a doggy description. Heartwarming how kind you are with her.
I wonder about obsession too.
I love your writing.
Thank you Michele. Your comment is heartwarming too.
Sleeping bag dreams (out in nature) are different than bed dreams … don't you think?
you wrote: “It gets a little fuzzy when you realize that 'space' doesn't exist, only spacetime, because that means that time is folded over on itself too. Writing taps experience (write about what you know about), and experience is gleaned.” …
Funny that you and I are both sharing dreams tonight … check out my blog.
I'm glad Patty was so snuggly and loving with you! ;-)
That magnificent border line between cold and comfort, chills and chums is indeed thin. Writing, putting pen to paper, word to parchment isn't something that should be done, but something that has to be done. Go figure.
Peri - F. A. Wolf says we share common dreams all the time, species dreams, dreams from the past and future, dreams to construct self-identity. I know I'm still processing what he wrote in The Dreaming Universe, but maybe, just maybe…. And sleeping bag dreams are, for me, completely different than bed dreams. Whooooa…;-) I'll check your blog in a sec…
Yeah Geo. I've been figuring and figuring and figuring and I keep coming up with all these different and weird answers all the time. Freaks me out…but then that's where I like to be anyway so all's right with the world….;-)
when you wrote: “writing is like shouting into a dark room” I immediately thought of this Frost poem: The Most Of It
He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree-hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder-broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter-love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far-distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush–and that was all.
Anyway….eat a good breakfast. I had fun reading this.
Thanks Tom. That Frost is perfect on my pumpkin this fine morning. And I just ate strawberries and plain yogurt - is that good?
figuring and figuring. Much like Pooh when he would go to his “thot ful spot” Then again, as HS Thompson said, “It just never got wierd enough for me.” One of the great writers.
Albert, I can't tell you how magically timed this was. Standing on the threshold of writing something today, I started to get “performance anxiety.” Your line, “Those who 'have to' don't care if anyone is listening, but if they believe someone is listening the writer obsess over the quality of the communication” speaks to well to that feeling.” The best writing happens when we take to the ice and don't care if the score-cards will all read “3.0, 2.5 and disqualified.” When we risk falling on our ass in our sequined suits.
Did you do the art-work? It dovetails perfectly with the writing. I like the image of being warm and snug in a sleeping-bag. When we “put it out there” we expose a little of ourselves like your face was exposed to the cold air. Then Patty comes along. She's big. She's black. But, she's familar. She wants to come inside, but settles for licking your face, baptising it with her doggie-snot and settling down beside you. I think the dog represents our True Self. Deep-down we like what we expose, in fact, if given a choice, we'd crawl right into our protective coccoon and drool all over ourselves. “Big and black” - the inevitable anxiety and fear we feel at not being good enough. Warm, loving, slobbery and accepting - the true nature of our self. Dog is “God” spelled backward. In my opinion, they are God's emissaries on earth, telling us that we're good enough - always. They love us naked. They love us when we're stupid, alone and unlovable. Pooch prophets each and every one.
Do the artwork? Catherine, I'm lucky I can write my name, 'course even then I'm also the only one who can read it. And yeah, I think here Patty does represent our true self; warm, loving, slobbery and accepting… I'm glad I timed it right…;-) Thank you.