FEAR AND DREAD

Generousity of a five-year old: The moon waterpainted the pond near where I sat with a frog with watery yellow eyes and gelatinous body clamped in my hand. It did not struggle, just seemed to listen to me sing 'Jesus Loves Me' as it waited for the miracle of my release.... Kerplunk!

Sometimes there is panic when the black silence begins to flutter and the moon hides its face, as you lay floating under blankets, still in the remnants of sleep, because you sense something, think you hear something as horrifying as the growing whimper of an infant with a rising temperature in the next room. And you jump up quickly to telephone a grown offspring to make sure all is well. Being a parent is a permanent position!

Another way of looking at things: Short-lived hate might have redeeming purpose. Convulsing beneath it is the pain (trying to weaken) that you will have to deal with when hate is gone.... You can be a hero without being brave, but you can be brave only when your heroism has fear in its roots.... The distortion of your own psyche—your fears, your wants, your abilities or lack thereof, blur your understanding of others, and your reception.... Fear is not only uncomfortable, but also manipulative. It can reduce you to the safety of living boring lives..... just as modesty, a fine quality, tends to make a person invisible. 

I don’t think you have to believe in ghosts to be haunted. You can be driven amuck by most anything— something feared, something desired, something lost. At vulnerable times— a smell, a taste, a sound, sudden movement, an architectural glimpse can spiral you into dizzying conflict with normal rationale.

Sometimes I like to dig up old bones (figuratively) even though the scenario doesn’t have much point. I like to arrange the past back into its natural shape, and walk it through tired old history, then try other shapes. I set some of it in chairs for eye-to-eyes though the eyes are missing, and put others on the run, and enjoy being a tourist to the truth. (My sensible self knows that death is a bigger place not disposed to trifling errands. Surely, the dead are not stuck in graves, nor concerned with the ant-antics of the living— rather off to grander things)... but now and then I play with various ways to smooth the contours of my anxieties and continue the purposeful blindness that there could yet be a way to make some thwarted past turn out better.

Last night I had a nightmare that I can't  remember. Today it keeps following me  around like a mean dog. I'm going to call it tonight, throw it a scrap of meat, and try to get close enough to see what this awful dread is all about.