Back To: The Tyranny of Materiality
So I'm a year old and Sunday's obviously a puppy too . . . I wonder if she was herding me? She was a wonderful dog who eventually died when she got hit by a snowplow . . . I feel like crying . . . sigh, I do cry when I see dead animals on the road . . . roadkill . . . does the term imply anything other than irrelevance? Whether it's a warm fuzzy animal like a bunny / raccoon / kitty / etc. or an ugly utilitarian animal like a woodchuck / frog / etc. where the hell has our compassion gone? Think about it the next time you see roadkill: unfortunately it will be sooner than later . . .
Riding Teddy again . . . my mother showed horses when she was younger and obviously instilled horsewomanship in me . . . Teddy was a grumpy little pony . . . hummm, the stereotypical little girl would give anything for a pony [or a prince, though I bet the pony would win out if there was a vote!] Ever since I can remember I've been unhappy . . . aarrrrgggg: language can't depict the state of being that I'm hopelessly trying to describe . . . I remember being very young and going into the bathroom and pouring liniment into a small glass and drinking some of it . . . the bottle screamed: External Use Only . . . I obviously didn't understand the overall situation as I confided in my friend Sandi a while later that I was going to die soon cause I drank that stuff . . . it makes me wonder what / how / when / why my psyche was / became crooked / skewed . . . I found these doodles in an old steno pad that my father had . . .
