Journal Entry, First Day
a lil something
Today, around 12:20 p.m., I was assisting my stepfather and mother with some digging and re-shuffling of soil in the backyard of their beautiful home in Eastfield. It was good, honest work that any ready, healthy fur has more than capable means of handling.
The morning had been pleasant. Woke up around 8, enjoyed my Raisin Bran with orange juice while making light conversation with my fifty-seven year old, vulpine mother about the Red Sox victory the night before (a trait I am thankful to have free in common with her). Dusting my stepfather's office, which I use as a temporary bedroom until I can afford to live on my own, followed by a shower before my twelve step meeting, and then a quick check on my e-mail, I made ready myself with a faded gray pair of jeans with a lopsided hole over the right knee and an orange Old Navy tee-shirt. With a quick mental checklist, I reviewed my material needs for the ten minute strut: MP3 player, check. Wallet with debit card, check. Keys, check. Pad and paper, check. Newports and lighter, check. I have no need for my phone because I have no minutes due to the fact my entire paycheck went towards pretty much bills. Fun times.
Leaving home and having completed the objective of gathering a medium iced coffee from Dunkin's after greeting with and making light conversation with my regular cashier, I continued onwards into downtown Eastfield, a Newport red ready for fruition and my MP3, I would like to think, eager to service my ears.
This is the point where everything becomes relevant to the Big Dream in My Head. The Big Dream in My Head has existed now for a Long Time, and has been inhaling and exhaling for as long as I can remember. Although its scope has spent much time growing from a tiny seed (and is, still very much so), its love, grace, energy and heart have withstood many blows for the main reason that I never wanted, and have never chosen, to throw away the possible manifestation of The Big Dream in My Head.
With one large, thin paw holding the iced coffee and MP3 and the other, in a rather forced, yet hoping to look natural, feminine movement of smoking the Newport red, one of my few available fingers on my left click through the random set of music: Disney? No. 80s power ballad? No way. Green Day? Too hard. Haven't had my Prozac yet.
Then. . . WHAMMO! Three Dog Night and "Mama Told Me Night To Come"! She's a keeper, I whisper to myself, and all of a sudden, the emotional struggle of feeling comfortable at the twelve step meeting of which have been irregular in my life as of recent times is released, and The Big Dream In My Head unfolds yet again.
The Big Dream is this. . .
I have started a revolution at Anthrocon, bringing the love and the glory of the original Woodstock to the big stage. Mixing Jimi Hendrix, Sly and the Family Stone, The Who, and a thousand other great all-time amazing rock and soul artists, both who were there and not there at that crazed event at Max Yasgur's 600 acre farm in Bethel, New York, with the exciting, pulsing throbs of furry drum and bass with trance, green love sonic doors break loose upon the bewildered crowd and Samuel Conway a.k.a Uncle Cage. Along with all wishing and willing to participate, in large drum circles, howling and mewling and purring and all types of crazed wonders and rhythms and harmonies, a sensation is set.
In my own head, though, I realize that being comfortable in my own fur is more important before turning on any number anyways. Emotional shakedowns never fail to stand my tail fur on end, and most nights, grasping Teddy extra hard just to get some extra sleep is a must.
Why I must be a lone wolf, I wonder to myself. Right away, as my mind does provide odd calisthenics to soothe the savage beast inside my psyche which is my own meandering and insatiable judge, I wonder back, well, why MUST I be a lone wolf?
I choose to be a lone wolf.
It would be very easy, I decide to myself, if life were like just a full-time job times forever because I have established myself as a junior professional at my place of business. At all times, giving my customers and co-workers labor sparkled inside and out with altruism, behind the wall of a deli store counter is safety, security, an area where I can say "Not too close but we can communicate anyways." If life were like just a full-time job times forever, then I would be the king of my land.
On the other hand, fantasies often crop up about getting yiffed by many customers and co-workers, too. Beneath that is a deeper longing for true intimacy, lowering the walls, embracing genuine emotional surrender, and sinking with the old ship of what is no longer to make my soul and heart cleansed for a new and ready future.
I got to my twelve step meeting, and it went well as expected. It's more than alcohol for this 35-year-old fur. It's my journey into the dreadful unknown of an invulnerable, emotional, and spiritual neutral ground where I feel some disadvantage. It's like being at a Care Bear Kumbaya bonfire in the middle of Care-A-Lot, willing just enough to be there, except you're sobbing your eyes out because the emotional distress is horrible. Yet, your friends are there, and that's what matters.
The rest of my day was pretty blasé, with the digging, an afternoon lunch at Taco Smell, volunteer work, and now I am here, being straight with you, looking up at my stepfather's clock and seeing its 7:27 p.m., with a little smile on my youngish, furred face, because I bet you're wondering just what I am doing this for.
Well, I'll tell you.
It's a real pleasure to write this down for someone who may just be having a real sorry ass piece of day today, and if you are, I am here for you. If your life has sucked, if somebody has told you today that they are sick of your self-pity and are sick of hearing your griping, and all that you want to do is go please yourself by attempting to drown misery in a six-pack or yiff porn or whatever, well, my friend, I hope that this journal entry can set you free.
Furdom is not for those who have already thrown away The Dream Inside Their Head. Furdom is not for those who have already thrown Their Childhood Wishes to sleep with the Fishes. In my heart, Furdom is for The Dreamers, The Believers, Those that Want to Set Their Hearts Free.
It's been a pleasure, for sure. Yiff on if you must, in the gods of yiff we trust.
And please keep that music hopping until Uncle Cage comes to Pittsburgh once more!