cgs/y the blowfish/wolf, sledgehammer, stutter

this is the difficult part, he starts to think to himself, and he doesn't even realize that he'd thinking this same thought at least 17 times a day, it travels through the bloodstream at 756 megabytes per second, or something impressive like that.  this is the part where you take a breath, and this is the part where you just give in, and every part comes with another breath.  but just like drinking stopped working to take away that initial freezing of the metal lining in the stomach, a few years ago, now smoking is having that same effect, and even with just a few puffs a day, it's not helping and his throat is starting to hurt.

he would like to think that this isn't the difficult part, and that it will get worse, that he's some kind of captive that's being taken in to another realm by forces that will shape him until they can present him to the world as the strongest person who ever suffered.  he would like to think that the throat is hurting from the screaming inside cars with the windows rolled up.  but he doesn't get to spend much time in cars, and if he were screaming in the open the way he thinks he is, he would not necessarily have the same freedoms that he does.  in big cities, people complain when someone is screaming a lot, and no one is complaining here, not yet.  he would also like to think that the reason there is no relief and no release from these things is that this is building in one of those slow movements that end suddenly in death, like the heart was slowly filling up, and that sooner or later is would do what a pot does when it's been boiling for a little too long.  this has got to be something greater than what it is, because everything is always much more than it is, and one can never see the elephant from all sides at once, and we are all blind, or missing fingers, or something important and sad.

it's not as big as it seems, then, and probably not entirely small either, but exactly the size that it is, and the notion that it might actually be what it actually is does bother him a little, and he knows it's a little more than it should, perhaps.

last night he slept with the dog again, a dog that used to be his, in a house that he used to live in.  this has been a strange couple of years, and there are lots of nights in the wrong house.   this house is right, however, but just not for him, at least not for now, and the dog is feeling out of sorts herself, as though she were aware that she were going through something large and heavy.  he slept in the house, not his, with the dog, not his, if that's not too proprietary, after having run his fingers over another 1200 pounds of items that belonged to his older brother.  he put them into boxes and taped the boxes shut.  he recognized some of the items, the books especially, because they used to talk about these.  the shamanism and the jungian analysis and the morbid comedian talking about smoking and drinking.  he also recognized that some of the items were unknowable, small boxes that held a weight that was not for him to understand.  some of the objects belonged to another time, and the other time would sometimes lurk and pace in circles around him while he packed, and occasionally pounced on him when he forgot to keep himself braced.

the dog was with him here, too, in an apartment that was not his, because he felt somehow responsible for the dog's loneliness and suffering.  she looked so very sad and lost, and he wanted to do something to help, even though he was starting to understand that this sadness would go on long past the help, and she might not even feel the relief that he thought he would feel if someone were going to help him.

it's a terrible thing when someone is reflecting and reflected everywhere, and can't even see their own reflections and projections.  that's what he was thinking, without irony, he thought, and thought that was terribly funny.

it was all becoming part of the moment that was leading into a moment that was going to be more difficult than the ones that came before it, placing objects in boxes and trying to make them lie flat and make sense.  this was all going to be difficult and required more and more moments that began with a deep breath.  then the dog, not his, not that anyone can own a dog really, but they were very close, had a tie, the dog, then, the dog, the dog seemed to start to understand that this apartment was in the middle of so many others, and that there were not only other people she really should be meeting because they could very likely help her with her career as a dog, and those people had dogs and cats that could likewise advance her position as a dog in the industry, and this made her suddenly go mad, and bark and make noise that should make her throat hurt the next day, if there were any justice, he thought, without irony.  her barks, then, came from a long line of urgent desires to work something out, a deep need to connect to the things that were close by, and to sever ties with the ones that were starting to hurt her.

her, the dog, not him, had recently been through something that would be considered rather intense to just about anyone, and especially to other dogs who had been through the same thing.  her, or rather, she, she had known some exceptional dogs in her life, and had the opportunity to be touched by these other, exceptional dogs, in ways that would possibly seem painful, or filled with a terrible pleasure that held the very seeds of its opposite hidden in the light of the sun.  dogs know sun, and dogs know when it is sunny, and dogs know when they are sunny, and this sundog was understanding that this was a period of very intense light.  the last thing she went through, the dog, was a greater balance of sun and moon, having been through what might be considered a love affair in the world where they use words like "love" or "affair," (and the dogs do not, not these dogs, they are neither dogs of war nor dogs of love but something entirely both and neither all at once). a greater balance of sun and moon is what it was, but at the time it was all moon, because lovers always think they invent the moon, and perhaps they do, or perhaps that is what the moon is for.  but there was more sun in that, or what might be considered the "male principle" in the realm of the alchemist dogs.

this sunny dog, however, was no alchemist, having recently given up that mantle in order to become more adept in the realm of witchcraft, related, perhaps, but not the same, except that all paths lead to the same thing, one hopes, which is nothing less than the transformation of the self into something like gold. sunny, being sunnier than most, did not adhere to those structures that conceived of principles as feminine or masculine, but so what, so it was, it was just so that the sun and the moon both took their part, and when she was so deeply in love (need to find a better word) with her lover (better word is out there), they would fluctuate between sun and moon with passing breaths and no one could tell who was what, who was the girl dog and who was the boy dog, and who would be everything else in between and outside these terribly regional boundaries.  sun and moon dog trace the four moments of the sun as if they were born under kalunga, and everything has time and direction and force under kalunga, and kalunga under dogs is the same kalunga under anything, one dog nation under nsambi, but dogs in love sometimes do behave automatically, often confused with dogmatically.

automatic dogmatic dogs sing songs to each other long after the sun and the moon have changed places and are no longer blessing their fur under their light, no longer bless their fur because they hide from the sun and the moon, and the dog was feeling somehow terribly absent from herself in this house, in this apartment, under this roof that belonged to too many for too temporary a time with too many demands.  landlords steal the souls or rape the spirits of everyone and everything, capitalist, marxist, or automatic dogmatic fur-lined dog hearts.

all of this to say, he was thinking about projections and reflections and the reasons people avoid thinking about themselves, and about how they might even try to avoid thinking about their own brother if there was enough pain in it, and he was wondering about how some people avoid thinking about the things that they are becoming, where the pattern they don't want to acknowledge is the one they are walking into again, and to know it ahead of time would mean that we are all controlled by instincts and freud and the other daddies were right.  or it might mean something else entirely, something that is only known to the world of the dogs, the ones who can cross back and forth between the realms of the living and the realms of the dead, and carry the secrets back and forth when the sun or the moon is in the right spot for keeping things hidden.  and it might even be possible for someone to look for the thing that was lost from childhood in every lover they meet, and there might be reasons that go past freud or even jung, and have something to do with bloodlines and generations.

he didn't even want to start thinking about a lover who wasn't there, one he hadn't even met yet, but he knew that she would have to have some kind of gypsy blood somewhere, and also have a capacity for sudden transformations in the dark, and also be just like this one, and just like that one, and just like the one he imagined without wanting to imagine her, because to imagine too much ahead of time would make a projection, and the next one who came along with any lover's intentions for him would enter his arms and into his projection at the same time, and they would never meet.

at the same time, he was also sure that he had become a part of someone else's projection, and recently, and often, and it was happening again in other realms, and when it happened it didn't make him run as fast as he thought he might.  under the spell of a projection, he understood, it was entirely possible to play the role that was assigned to him, and play it better than he'd played the role of brother, husband, father, lover, or friend, and perhaps the best projections held more than a little animal nature in them, and that gave him room to become everything he desired.  this was something he wanted to remember, because he wanted to allow this possibility for the next one who came along, or the next one who came back and said they were new, and that becoming animal was becoming entirely exhilarating to consider. because it was possible.  he couldn't find string to tie his finger so he did the next best thing, and pierced his lip through with a ring that didn't quite fit, was a little too large, because this whole needed a mark, this hole needed room, and this white pain would keep him from getting too sentimental about packing up the things that reminded him of who he used to be when his brother was also someone else, and the world was a little more secure because he had someone who could protect him from these things.

the dog was still too lost thinking about her lost lover, and too afraid of the footsteps on the ceiling, to be counted on, and he picked up the things of his brother with his own shoulders, the ones which were no longer large enough to carry the weight of the world, but could stand all the weight of the animals living in between his shoulder blades.  


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