Consider Canelo. He is the most beautiful beagle on earth; only a slight exaggeration. He also loves us, to a degree that is almost absurd. His days revolve around sleeping on us, kissing us and jumping on us every time we get home because we were obviously never coming back and he was completely taken by surprise when we did. Taking all this into account, you would think that the metal bars that compose his cage would cause psychological mayhem in him, an unpreventable capitulation into hysteria. Yet, when the keys jingle, the clack of hurried heals reaches the door and the distant beep of the car unlocking is caught, Canelo sits patiently. He awaits the command that will dictate his entrance to the seemingly wretched cage that tears him away from his loved ones. As soon as we say “a la camita Canelo” he runs in to the back corner of his prison, curiously considering us as we latch the door he has no hope of opening with his lack of opposable thumbs. I spend more time than is probably advisable considering my dog. Obviously this strange behavior caused a DNA helical “turn over” in my mind. My conclusions?
Canelo’s bed is his comfort. It wasn’t always like this. But as the stretches of time he was left along grew longer and longer, so did his surroundings become more familiar. Until finally, the prospect of spending hours without us in a giant house became the claustrophobia, and his bed became the wide open fields. There he can lie on his two comfy pillows and baby blanket. Quiscent, calm, free from even having to consider sleeping on a couch or bed without a warm body next to him and a friendly hand rubbing his back.
The Latin Rhythm memo was my cage. A supposedly irritating task, easy enough to copy and paste and be done with. I couldn’t do it though. I enjoy writing so much, but I hide from it. I was fearful that if my status’s included metaphors and complicated vocabulary I would be judged as possessing palaver. So I took to the memo like Canelo took to his cage. I made it my safe spot to hide from the negative assessment of myself and conveniently revel in the esteem my tone conjured. I took a break from writing the memo for Lent. I fell into a pit of melancholy. Finding any outlet for my expression, I was forced to concede to personal statements in resumes and Microbial homework meant to be written in technical prose. Circumstances forced me to go back to writing the weekly message again. It was ecstasy, my fingers ached from writing and rewriting all the necessary dispatches until they were perfect, but it was a good pain. But, once again, I find myself without my release. I amicably passed on my title as secretary. As dejection threatens to grip me again, I must find a solution. Thank god for blogs.