![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I remember when they brought him home
So white and fluffy and soft to hold,
Like a big homey clump of cotton balls,
With two shiny black dots for eyes
And a small black button for a nose -
Like a cute stuffed animal for little girls.
~ ~ ~
It was late in the summer, I believe, in 1991. I immediately grabbed the tiny puppy, just weeks old. from mother’s hands, like I was a child and it was all mine. Pop voiced a little displeasure over my usurpation, but mother squelched it - it’s okay. I wanted to introduce Bo right away to his newspapered den, the conversion of our bathroom. I was going by the book. I was going to use my education for something, for the raising of this dog. True, it was love at first sight, but I did not know then that he really was going to be my best and only friend, living by my side for the next 17 years.
==================
The above represents another track for my writing energy. Since I prefer to play chess to writing in my journal these days, I have been feeling some urge to redirect some of that energy back down a writerly course. I was thinking: poetry. Again. The idea is that I would just pick something to play around with, an old memory most likely. The first thing that came to mind and stuck was when we got Bo. However, the poetry was not coming off so well, but I figured it was good enough if I could make a good journal entry out of the memory.
This idea might work. I will try to go back to my pre-journal days. However, maybe I can eventually try things that are not so personal. Maybe it can even be about contemporary events, though I admit this makes it hard to distinguish between my regular journaling and this. Mainly, I suppose, it's just about having something pinned on the writing board, and being willing just to play around with it for a while, without feeling any real urgency to finish it anytime soon, for when I am in the mood and hankering to write, to remember and reflect. These days, the writerly feeling is just not that strong or persistent. Like I said, I am enjoying chess more, and it's not like it matters to anyone. It is as though, now that I am this old, there is no longer any hope of being able to impress anyone and of being saved, of having a life that I can feel good and proud about, and that this was indeed my real motivation all along.
So white and fluffy and soft to hold,
Like a big homey clump of cotton balls,
With two shiny black dots for eyes
And a small black button for a nose -
Like a cute stuffed animal for little girls.
~ ~ ~
It was late in the summer, I believe, in 1991. I immediately grabbed the tiny puppy, just weeks old. from mother’s hands, like I was a child and it was all mine. Pop voiced a little displeasure over my usurpation, but mother squelched it - it’s okay. I wanted to introduce Bo right away to his newspapered den, the conversion of our bathroom. I was going by the book. I was going to use my education for something, for the raising of this dog. True, it was love at first sight, but I did not know then that he really was going to be my best and only friend, living by my side for the next 17 years.
==================
The above represents another track for my writing energy. Since I prefer to play chess to writing in my journal these days, I have been feeling some urge to redirect some of that energy back down a writerly course. I was thinking: poetry. Again. The idea is that I would just pick something to play around with, an old memory most likely. The first thing that came to mind and stuck was when we got Bo. However, the poetry was not coming off so well, but I figured it was good enough if I could make a good journal entry out of the memory.
This idea might work. I will try to go back to my pre-journal days. However, maybe I can eventually try things that are not so personal. Maybe it can even be about contemporary events, though I admit this makes it hard to distinguish between my regular journaling and this. Mainly, I suppose, it's just about having something pinned on the writing board, and being willing just to play around with it for a while, without feeling any real urgency to finish it anytime soon, for when I am in the mood and hankering to write, to remember and reflect. These days, the writerly feeling is just not that strong or persistent. Like I said, I am enjoying chess more, and it's not like it matters to anyone. It is as though, now that I am this old, there is no longer any hope of being able to impress anyone and of being saved, of having a life that I can feel good and proud about, and that this was indeed my real motivation all along.
