The Legend of the Dog Fart

Back when wolves first realized human food scraps were of interest some thirty thousand years ago (or another ungodly long ago number), an evolution began of humans and ultimately dogs sharing food. Humans were divided into those who hunt the food with dogs along side and those who prepared the food with dogs along side. Anything related to food was of great interest to dogs. This has not changed over millennia. It is the great reward system for all living beings. No food, no companionship.

Dogs became partners in hunting, eating, and protecting. Dogs sat quietly near the hunter awaiting prey. Dogs sat next to those preparing food hoping for a dropped morsel. Dogs were ever vigilant awaiting leftovers while humans ate. Dogs sat next to babies protecting them knowing they would one day grow up and feed them. Dogs growled and barked out warnings to intruders just in case they might steal food.

As a partner in this food gathering, protecting, and consumption, dogs have made a nearly silent reassuring announcement of their presence. One can sit with a dog any time day or night smelling the air. The dog will smell thousands of pieces of information. The human with their puny nose can reliably smell only one thing wafting to them from the dog. This smell is reassuring, an announcement of the eating partnership. It is a testament to their living, breathing selves. Human partners the world over can take sustenance in this reassuring drift of scent. I am speaking, of course, of the dog fart which has been a staple of human dog relationships since the dawn of time.

My dog is old now. Her physical efforts are limited. However sitting quietly reading at night with her by my chair, I get reassurance and comfort by the wafting of her dog fart. Only one thing smells like it to my nose. It is a statement of her continued breathing and steady presence. I dread the day when Sheba’s fart touches my nose no more. All humans should celebrate the great and wonderful dog fart. Without it, we would be lost.

Reporting from Life’s front.

Joceile

8.17.23

[Sheba, 2017]

The Scarlett Temperature Index

85+ degrees: “Don’t talk to me! I’m never coming out from under this bed again.”

80-85: “Fine, I can sleep next to the bed or in the corner.”

75-80: “Your lap rates a nightly inspection but that’s it.”

70-75: “You know, the bed is not half bad to sleep on all day. “

65-70: “Your lap is cozy. Has it always been here?”

60-65: “Laying on you warm people at night just works.”

55-60: “Where the hell have you been? I’m freezing my ass off here.”

50-55: “I love you, Joceile. I could sleep on you all day. Ahhhh.”

50 and below: “Your lap is only thing between us and oblivion. No, you don’t have to pee. Hold it!”

*Based on Global Warming Trends and available Scarlett data for the period 2008-2023

 

[Picture of light colored long haired cat laying on intricate multicolored quilt.]

Don’t Even Think About It!

When going to sleep, it’s always a race to see who will win, exhaustion or body pain. Sleep is the finish line. Body pain is the great disrupter.  Unfortunately body pain is tonight’s winner. I give it about 30 minutes of relaxing and meditating before I call it and get up. When body pain wins, it could be a long time before sleep crosses the finish line.

I use methodology of all sorts to give sleep an edge. Sleep tools like timing, a magnesium supplement, preparation, positioning, proper pillow placement, and pain management. That’s a lot of P’s. Despite this, the odds of pain winning are seven to three. I’m not a gambler but I don’t think these are good odds. And there’s a wild card here.  My mind.

“Don’t think!”

“Do not examine historical facts about my greatest life mistakes, what I did wrong today, or how I missed the mark last year.”

When going to the bathroom at four in the morning, I instruct, “Don’t think! Keep focusing on the pleasant dream you just had.” Using my best hypnotist voice, I say, “Remember the dream…remember the dream,” in hopes of protecting my dear friend Sleep.

When gently entering sleep heaven, “Imagine floating in water, gently up and down, up and down. No! Stop thinking about boat repairs! Just up and down, up and down…”

Or, “Breathe deeply, expanding your belly. Feel your body filling with oxygen. Send it to all parts. Exhale slowly, slowly. Repeat, inhale, expand, exhale slowly.” I talk to myself in second person, “Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, gently, quietly. No, don’t think about what that skin growth is! You’ll see the doctor next month. Keep breathing in, out, in, out…”

Or, “I don’t know why my back hurts laying here. Don’t ask. We don’t know. That’s for the doctor visit in two months. Yes, I know it’s uncomfortable. Keep thinking about the beauty of tall, full trees with their deep roots stretching into the earth and branches reaching for the sky... Be a tree, feel your body grounding and your mind stretching up for dreamy sleep...”

On and on it goes. Yes, I meditate. Yes, I keep moving. Yes, I’ve seen a chiropractor, massage therapist, physical therapist, acupuncturist, had steroid injections, met with the orthopedist, neurologist, naturopath, had group therapy with mindfulness exercises, kept a pain log, listened to relaxing nature sounds… There’s always more I can do. The deal with some pain is that I have to learn to live with it well. Sadly, I don’t have an owner’s manual to explain what I need.

“Did you check the positive crankcase ventilation filter at 25,000 miles?” Head smack, “That’s it!”

No, it doesn’t work that way. Doctor Google is also a failure. “No, I don’t have a herniated, slipped disc requiring reconstructive surgery on the left metatarsal at levels six and seven. Nor do I have Lyme disease or an obscure genetic reaction to a medication my grandmother took 80 years ago. No, no, no. It’s just Life.” As Klinger said in M*A*S*H, “This is not going to be a piece of baklava.” Living is hard work, confusing work, mysterious and confounding work. My challenges are reminiscent but not the same as any other living being. There are too many complicating factors from a zillion different experiences and interactions. Even if I somehow managed to physically look like another person (and god help them if they still have a mullet), my unique constellation of life experiences and physical and mental reactions to these experiences would ensure we were nothing alike. How can anyone adequately prepare for this kind of unchecked chaos?  It’s an outrageous design.

After a fretful sleep last night and a very busy day, I did manage to gently fall asleep shortly after 9:30 this evening but I woke up at 11 and thought I should start the dishwasher, pill the dog, brush my teeth, and put on sleep clothes (don’t even ask). This was my undoing. By the time I got settled back into a sleeping position, the momentum was lost. Now I’m writing this whole pathetic constellation of a life well lived and the distress therein. After that, there’s always my favorite comedy movies and actors. Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther, Monty Python’s Life of Brian, Whoopi Goldberg in Jumpin’ Jack Flash, Zero Mostel in The Producers or A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, or something more contemporary. It turns out humor is a great balm for pain from any source. Thank you Captain Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce.

Reporting from Life’s front.

Joceile

7.10.23

[Picture: Thunder clouds at sunset on the lake.] 

The Day the Wraiths Came

Last week, the wraiths came

With dazzling beauty 

And changing form.

We looked for faces

Because we’re human.

In looking, they appeared, 

Illusions from our own minds.

Watching with awe

Their delicate dance

In the slow spinning sky

Until with dusk,

They passed over head

Into the glorious night

~ Joceile 

7.8.23

[Pictures of thin delicate white clouds in many shapes with drifting tails in a blue sky.]

A Beautiful Map

I look in the mirror at six in the morning at the downward lines in the corner of my mouth. They’re starting to give me a permanent unsmile when my face is at rest. I appraise the tired eyes with bags under them. Eyes that are full of pain and love in equal measure and crinkle in the corners when I smile. My hair is a salt and pepper blend leaning towards ever more grey with a silver sheen at times. At others, it appears as a dull battleship flatness. My upper lip is starting to get those vertical wrinkles that can make it look like I have a mustache. I’ve waited 45 years to have a my own mustache. The whiskers on my chin are grey. I cut but don’t pluck them.

I know according to widely held social mores I am supposed to be disappointed with my aging looks. I am supposed to be hypercritical and disapproving of my increasingly older appearance. But I’m not. In fact, it is a grand marker of my unimagined survival and grace under fire. 

My teeth are not a lovely shade of white. I have the most interesting droops and sags to my body. My breasts are no longer perky. My muscle tone increasingly disappears. I have unusual spots curving around one side of my face like an alien on television. I have irritating skin tags that briefly bleed when I pull them off. I have a crop of dark growths on my back that need to be removed occasionally. 

I know I’m supposed to be disgusted and disappointed by all these signs of aging. I’m simply not. How many dear friends did not live to see these signs? It’s a declaration of my struggles and march to elder status. I work to be kind and interested in others. I’m restrained in doling out advice to younger people. I strive to listen. I’m honored to be alive. I love women who look like Maggie Smith, Helen Mirren, and Judi Dench. Nothing is more painful than to see women mar their aging faces with makeup and plastic surgery. 

Women I’ve worked with relentlessly color their hair to hide their grey. I don’t know how many old blonds, or young ones for that matter, we need in society but it’s over the top. When I said I loved my grey, I was told the grey in my hair had a pretty pattern. Given that they’ve never seen their full grey look, their unique pattern was most likely missed. I earned my grey and am proud of it. It is a sign of triumph.

Women say they are discounted and ignored as they enter this phase. I believe a loud mouthed, loud dressed old woman cannot be ignored. Break out the protest signs. I will not go meekly into a corner. I’ll just speak a whole lot louder with a caustic wit. Younger women need insistent, colorfully dressed role models. Give thanks to the “fuck off fifties.” 

Yesterday morning, my sweetheart of 34 years looked across the table at me and said I was stunningly beautiful. I’m touched. I’ve said the same to her. Look out, we still got it after all these years. 

It’s not like my aging body is a piece of cake. With chronic pain, arthritic joints, and slowed reflexes, it only looks good. Laugh if you will. I only have one so I choose reverence whenever I can. I can’t be waiting around for someone else to appreciate it for me. It’s the only thing I truly own in this world and even that is a collaboration. I’d be a fool not to applaud it. 

I’ve come to think of my body as this amazing universe in space, separate and distinct from other bodies circling in this earthly solar system. Much is unknown in this universe with extraordinarily complex interacting systems. Inside, there are living beings in societies I’ll never see. This is probably just as well. It’s a bit unnerving. Although many but not all of these have been mapped, their inner workings still defy our understanding. Their response to stimuli over decades is unique. We don’t understand why some develop one way and others another. How can this mind blowing specialness not be revered? Yes, we suffer pain. Yes, we must let go of younger physical ways of doing things. But we have this astonishing gift of being alive where our eyes and autonomic systems represent life, something conferred by a magic we cannot hope to comprehend. This is a life that I alone am blessed with. 

My body has maps of many types. In summer, I frequently marvel at one specifically, and yes, I took a picture. Where could this map reside?  It looks vaguely topical, possibly tropical, lifted from the geology of a place on the globe. It appears to have water on both sides, beaches, green foliage, mountains, and rivers. Or is that a school of pink fish? It is a colorized version of a picture of the veins just below my ankle. I know these veins are supposed to be ugly. They’re not. To me, they represent a beautiful map of where I’ve been and the pulsing life within me. How could I not be dazzled?

Reporting from Life’s front. 

Joceile 

6/24/23

[Picture of colorized map including water, beaches, mountains, and vegetation with blue, green, pink, red, and tan. Not created by an AI program.]

The Onus is on Us

I’m a powerful male producer with an unethical past with beautiful women models wanting to be actors begging me to help them become stars, and the studio owner says to me, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.” 

I work alone with vulnerable adults. I have a violent past with anger control problems and my manager says to me, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.”

I own a gun. My license says, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly,” including those with access to my gun.

I’m an active alcoholic in charge of taking young mentally ill children out into the woods for a camping trip. My booze is packed and my supervisor instructs me that, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.”

I work in a bank with no preemployment screening, no ethical training, and piles of cash around, with no audit or security functions. I’m in debt, can barely make rent, and I have three hungry young children at home. In an all staff meeting, the bank president says to us, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.”

I have a gambling addiction. Every time I charge my debit card to place a bet, there’s an attached disclaimer from the casino that says, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.”

I’m a famous celebrity who likes to party hard with fans fawning all over me, including impressionable young people. I’m supposed to remember the onus is on me to behave responsibly. 

I’m a police officer who has been known to act on bigoted beliefs. My sergeant says that regardless of provocation, real or imagined, “The onus is on you to behave responsibly.” 

These are my thoughts when I was reading a New York Times instruction article for using the latest AI image editing and generating tools, written presumably by their technology writer, Brian X. Chen (who is a real person). It gives helpful directions on how to immediately use these tools for our entertainment (let’s punch up those family photos) using a free seven day trial or $10 monthly subscription so we can immediately generate or alter any image regardless of our intentions, ethics, morals, or religious or political beliefs. His concluding paragraph contains this priceless sentence, “Whichever tool you use, bear in mind that the onus is on you to use this technology responsibly.” Remarkably, this is because there is no oversight, regulation, or technical limitations to keep you from using them injuriously or destructively. (Gasp, who would ever do that?!) I know this will work well because people with drivers’ licenses never do things out of poor judgement or with bad intent that cause catastrophic results to others. We know this. Humans are great at self-regulation.

I am terrified because I work in human resources, and I know what employees do even with reasonable safeguards (no offense to employees), and I know what they would do if we told them their only guiding principal is that the onus is on them to behave responsibly.

I’ve given extreme examples of unethical behavior and avarice. But it’s a slippery slope that even the well intentioned can use to a bad outcome. We are all complicit in our behavior. Each use of these tools increases their overall impact on us by inserting them ever more invisibly in our daily lives. These tools are used to make judgements, identify humans, and target individuals rightly or wrongly. They are not benign and cannot be persuaded by human appeal. A robot is not moved by being told how much I love my dog. Its judgement is final. 

So get your affairs in order, tell love ones how much you love them, treat people with kindness, and be prepared to meet whatever end you believe in because the onus is on us to behave responsibly.

Reporting from Life’s front.

Joceile

6.2.2023

[Image of wild eyes with multiple colors was drawn by the author’s hand on an iPad using a stylus. This essay was not generated using any AI tools except for a spellcheck and dictation function which, it could be argued, is an AI type tool.]

How’d You Do, Joceile?

Lately, my favorite explanation is, “I wasn’t my best self.” Other versions of it could be: I screwed up; I missed the mark; I could’a done better; I made a mistake. 

It’s all in attempt to both own my mistake and give myself a break for being human. It could be a kind of grace that comes with long experience. It’s not in an effort to refuse accountability. Holding myself accountable is a premium value for me. Not beating myself up is a priority that took longer to develop.

Was I thoughtless? Was I impatient? Was I talking when I should’ve been listening? Was it bad judgment? Did I simply forget a commitment? It could have been any of these and more. My least favorite is a mistake that hangs with me for a long, long time. Those are the ones I try to learn from the most. Sometimes, I’m vilified in my own mind by the double bind life puts us in. No matter how good I do, it doesn’t last. 

I’m always struggling in that place of wanting to do the best and allowing that being perfect isn’t possible or reasonable. It’s an art. The art of living a good life. Setting up goal posts with an undaunted eye and accepting that not all goals can be reached. It could be an act of humility and self love. Extending this to others is an outgrowth of this love. How could I give a break to others if I can’t give one to myself?

Today, I’m going to go out in the world. I may make a mistake. I’m certainly going to make one at some point. I won’t like it. I’ll be disappointed and annoyed that despite my good intentions I missed the mark. But I’m going to extend kindness to myself and work to extend it to everyone else. I won’t do it perfectly but I will keep trying. That is the greatest gift of life. That we keep hanging in there to swing again at the next ball that’s pitched. It may be a curve ball, a fast ball, or a down and in slider. As long as I keep swinging and the balls keep coming, I’ve got another chance. 

Reporting from Life’s Front.

Joceile

5.20.23

[Picture: The lake with storm clouds on the horizon that may or may not arrive.]