I did some going through papers at my desk at work today, making a stack of various healthcare/insurance things I've been putting off dealing with, looking for the papers that show my pup is up-to-date on shots and such, gathering up rubber bands to plunk a handful into the disposable plastic food bin we collect 'em in. Etc. I tossed a lot of paper into recycling, but not all of it. One tri-folded piece turned out to be a letter, in ballpoint, from whose lines I could feel the enthusiasm still jumping out, in its mash-up of cheerleading, advocating, vowing and celebrating the possibility of pursuing exactly what I wanted too. It was so alive and present, I can't believe how lost it is, how lost it seems. It shouldn't be possible. It strikes me as some kind of core wrong. And this is a problem for me. This mind-fuck. That ink, looking fresh. The staring into the face of the drugs, the fix. The reality of it, the coming to grips, and yet the reality of it now.
There's this thing about being in the moment, and that's that the moment includes other moments. So I feel my feet flat on the floor, and the weight of my palms on either side of this Macbook, and I hear the airplane buzzing in the air outside, and some of that air wafts in past the fan and swirls across my face, and now a burp rises up my esophagus and comes forth in a modest brupp of expulsion, and I feel and note and concentrate on these parts of now. But other moments are also in this one. And moments, it turns out, I find, in my aging, do a tesser act. Time morphs. Distance in time ain't linear ruler regular math.
I folded the page back up, and hope it will do that trick on me again, agonizing tho it is.
Now me and the pup are gonna go to the car wash and one or two stores with dog stuff.