Monday, July 28, 2008
Aaaaanyway....

This is turning out to be the weirdest election ever. I mean, does it fuck with your head as much as mine that we're barely three months away from the presidential election and we still don't know who the VP nominee is going to be? Have you noticed that McCain has so far turned out to be an inert puddle of bile that grumbles when you poke at it, but not much else? It's like he's decided the best thing to do is to go back to napping and find out what happened once it's all over.

Just sayin' is all.

It's been an exhausting week, hence the relative silence. I don't have anything in particular to which I might attribute it; I guess some weeks are just more tiring than others. There was an incident over the weekend that I think started things off. My roommates spent a night away in Corvallis -- with their sprogling set to emerge any time now, they seem to be desperate to get away while they still can -- and left me to take care of the dog. It's not a big deal, I feed him and let him outside and spend a little time with him. I had to work that night, though, so he was left alone later than usual. When I got home I filled his bowl, let him eat, and put him out, same as always, and set about making my own dinner while he took the night air.

Going to the fridge, I noticed a few dark droplets on the floor and wondered what they might be -- jam? juice? gravy? -- but I didn't think too much of it. If I might gently say so, my roommates are complete and utter slobs in the kitchen, and stains of unknown origin aren't uncommon. So I just went about my preparations. Once dinner was on the boil I let the dog back in, and noticed that he immediately began licking an awkward spot on his leg. And then I noticed other dark stains on the floor, and on the carpet. And then I realized that the spots were dried blood.

Which probably counts as one of the main things you don't want to discover on the floor on the one night you've been entrusted with the care of another person's pet.

The stupid dog had managed to gash his leg open on something, somewhere. It was no longer actively bleeding, but it was ugly and painful-looking and a couple of inches long. I had no idea how long he'd been that way, but my guess was a few hours. He didn't seem particularly upset -- he was unhappy, but calm -- and he wasn't limping or avoiding putting weight on the leg. Hell, he was still trotting around the house and running to the windows for a rousing bark whenever he heard a noise outside, so his behavior wasn't much different from the usual. So I called my roommates and asked what they wanted me to do. There's an excellent 24-hour animal hospital in town, but getting a vet's services after 10pm ain't cheap, and there's no way I'm paying for this. I described his state and injury, and they discussed it, and told me to let him take care of himself for the night, and they'd check it out when they got home in the morning.

Poor, stupid dog. I decided that if he was my dog, I'd at least attempt to bandage him up, so I ran to the supermarket and bought some gauze and pads and tape and brought them home. But when I tried to bandage his leg, he wasn't fucking having it, and I didn't want to press the issue, so I left him oozing blood on the carpet. And then I proceeded to spectacularly fail at sleeping that night because I was too worried about him. The next day his parents took him to the vet and got him stitched up, and he came home with one of those subtle canine-torture devices around his neck. He's oblivious to it, though, so he keeps banging into stuff. Which is pretty goddamn hilarious.

Stupid dog.

Otherwise, it's been a quiet week. I've started taking the first half hour or so of my morning to write -- not for the blog obviously, but just to be writing. I've produced nothing so far that I'd care to show anyone, nor even anything that I think is likely to turn into anything good, but at this point it's more about establishing the behavior than seeing results. Looking at it now, it seems to me that while this blog has had its uses -- the opportunity to vent, to record a few years of my day-to-day life, and take my modest talent out for walkies now and then -- it's also done a certain amount of harm. Writing here is easy -- too easy, easy enough that I can do it off-handedly and lazily. Writing on this blog is like walking down a well-worn path on a familiar street: I know the way so well all I have to do is plod along and I get where I'm going without even thinking about it. I start at the beginning and write and write and write and then I wrap it up and I'm done.

But now I'm realizing that the same structures that serve me adequately on the blog aren't going to get me much further. The habits and thought patterns that I rely on to write here aren't useful for much else, but they've become so ingrained that I'm finding it difficult to break out of them. So if I ever want to write on a bigger scale, and about things that are bigger than me, all this has to change. But this is all I've been writing for nearly five years now. The rut is deep.

So my morning writing is mostly geared towards writing stuff that I'd never, ever post on the blog -- hacking away my accumulated bullshit, trying to get back to a phase where I didn't really know how to write, and so didn't make any assumptions. It's easier to get into the right frame of mind while I'm still fuzzy from sleep and mentally relaxed. And while it's frustrating to spend this extra time working and by definition having nothing to show for it, and while I may have to start working through the suck all over again, unless I want to spend the rest of my life as a formulaic, unknown blogger, I think it's something I just have to do.
1:22 PM ::
Amy :: permalink
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