I wonder if dogs are from Mars?

  • Saturday, November 12, 2022
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What if God was one of us

Just a slob like one of us

Just a stranger on a bus

trying to make His way home

Just trying to make His way home

Like a Holy rolling stone

back up to heaven all alone

Just trying' to make his way home

Nobody calling' on the phone

'cept for the Pope maybe in Rome



It has been hot putting me in mind of Geckos, translucent and chirping and other lizards, of Themba with his coat the colour of wild honey and cinnamon, his kohl lined eyes and black lips those of a goth, his heart goofy and huge. We both look to the sky and catch an aeroplane pinned against the moon like a moth, we see birds and dandelion seeds, bees and sometimes the cat on the wall. We are philosophisers. The dog wonders what it must be to be a bird and I wonder if dogs are from Mars? Maybe Cats too. I consider the possibility they have been living here with us all along sending uploads back through space, pointing their muzzles upwards like antennas? Perhaps they have been sent to save us from ourselves, their mission critical and the hour getting short but their optimism and faith undimmed, their patience endless. Look at us they say, we will teach you how to love, to be open hearted and generous, to live for the moment.
I have made an attempt, living in my garden dressed only in shorts and leaving only to run. There has been no rain and the ground is dry, my feet sounding like drumbeats, the soil hard and like parchment. The sky has been the colour of bronze like a giant gong, it is silent and expectant waiting to be struck. The heat has stripped me not only of my clothes but also exposed my authentic self, languid and laid back, my humour dry and my heart at peace. My binnetuin, my internal landscape has become of place of sunshine and cool breezes, my anxiety sedated and stuffed to merely murmer in the dark cracks. I have only today so I run shirtless in the woods, lupine and loose, practicing the velocity of loneliness, thinking about the deep need for affirmation, the void of rootlessness, of being rootless. I wonder if this will ever resolve or whether I am simply nomad. Running, enjoying this looseness and lucidity I think how easy it is to run across the ground when the years have taught you, subconsciously you read the micro contours and choose the best places to put your feet. It is smooth, efficient and certain. No sooner do I think this I catch my toe on an exposed root and fall opening up a deep cut in my knee. There is an immediate trickle of blood like a song because blood always sings, always has a song, always tells a story. With the release of my blood, this song I roll onto my back and laugh joyfully and unrestrained, the lessons of dogs and running converge, the moment pure and my face full of dust. 

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