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Tuesday, Nov. 09, 2004 / 7:49 p.m. ~She Forgets Her Age Whilst I Fantasize of Her Demise~ What does it mean when your heart is pounding inside your chest, so close to the surface it feels like you could look down and see it there? I can think of no reason for it. Perhaps there was MSG in the shrimp fried rice. Norman is being a little kitty, chasing after the belt on my robe. She's forgotten her age, and this is a good thing. Yes, a robe. And pajamas, and I finally turned the pilot light, and consequently the heater, on. It's cold. Down to the 30s tonight. The heart still pounds, hard and heavy. It's a little frightening actually. Must be MSG, we'll chalk it up to that for now. We'll forget everything else I'm feeling and just chalk it up to something out of my control. It's not yet 8:00 p.m. and I'm exhausted. I could go to bed, to sleep, for a million years, never waking up, sleep. Tonight, on my way home from work, I saw what appeared to be black smoke on the horizon, a plume of it billowing from an area that could have been my own home. I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach, that, Oh, no, my building is on fire!, feeling, knowing for an instant, just for an instant, that I'd drive up and see fire engines and water everywhere, and people crying and holding animals close to their chests, and Norma and Gladys would be gone, and I'd have nothing. And I thought of the insurance money, and not worrying about the cats dying of kidney failure, and not having to worry about creating a Will, about who would inherit all this 'stuff', and I felt relieved, almost excited, almost anticipatory and glad and hopeful, for an instant, until I felt intense guilt for feeling all of that, and grief for my own joy at the loss of my animals. No such fire. It was all here, all of it, and it is still. And I sit amidst it all tonight, glad to be here, in my home, with my girls, my high maintenance geriatric cats who still play like kittens when the mood strikes, and the belt of a robe dangles over the edge of a chair, while my heart races because I'm wishing too hard. And still, I'm so sad I can cry at the drop of a proverbial hat. I can cry just writing that I could cry. Everything is too intense right now, and too open and exposed, and ultimately simply very sad. Cost of the War in Iraq
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