It's usually the cold weather that spikes the forever running sap of my bottoming out in the areas of love, tenderness and overall efghuuuooooh.
However, on this rare June evening, sticky with the ceiling fan's ineffective twirlings, I find this bullshit seeping out of me. Frustrated, forlorn and still tinged with the red of pillow marks from a five hour nap, I can feel the usual ache that seems to follow me.
Drink, drink, drink all of the wine in the world and all of the pink champagne. It's what happens to you in the evening, in the night, when there is nothing but hums and whispers and sighs.
Drunkenly, I seem to find the perfect life-encompassing metaphor in the differing advice provided in what to do in case of a bear attack.
drawing by Paul B. Drohan
Some say to tower your hands above your head, making your body taller and larger in hopes of intimidating the bear. This way, the bear will see you as an equal threat, or even a greater one than he. Somehow he will know to continue on.
Conversely it has also been advised to curl your body into a small, lifeless ball. That by somehow folding your arms and legs you will make yourself seem as tiny as possible, disappearing into the forest green. To play dead, taking shallow breath upon shallow breath until the bear believes, and often you as well, that you have ceased to exist, or never did in the first place.
And as we all go on living and dreaming, I find myself stuck between the two plans, waiting for my bear attack to see what it is that I really am.
The Softies - Stormy Weather
Bishop Allen - Butterfly Nets