“I do not like the way they treat the stuffed animals”

The night before I finished off yesterday’s post, I had a dream. The fog was thick and heavy, my partner and I were stopping by the gas station before swinging back by the mall to pick up my mother. I recognize a woman in the gas station (she is a librarian in life, but in the dream she was making a little extra as a janitor). While we are talking, she points to a rack of barely sketched in stuffed Halloween animals and says, “I do not like the way they treat the stuffed animals.”

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Monkeysuit Problems

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

From W. B. Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium”

It was a cold autumn evening as I waited on some friends to show up. I pulled my hood up and tugged it tight to keep the warmth a little closer. Its edges extended past my face, hedging out my peripheral vision. I could hear my breath inside the hood as I turned my body to look to the houses, pond, and trees, as I leaned back to tilt my face toward the sky. I had the sudden and visceral sense of being underwater, or maybe floating in space. For a few moments, I could imagine my life as one long dive.

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