So I was shopping for fresh zucchini at the Sunday market that touts locally grown foodstuffs and produced goods. To keep the community interested in returning week after week, the market has weekly themes to attract newcomers and return shoppers. Last week it was Bon Appetit Dog Day. Patrons were encouraged to bring their civilized four legged friends to participate in giveaways and a cancer awareness walk.

If my better half is home, we get lunch at the market and settle in for people watching before choosing produce and returning home. In his absence, I tend to linger less and be more efficient in purpose, taking longer to park than purchase.

This week, I lingered a few minutes longer feeding of the symbiotic energy generated between man and his best friend. I haven’t had dogs in my life since I was a teenager. I like them. They are loyal in ways cats can never be. They are genuine, affectionate, and companionable. All reasons they deserve owners who can devote the amount of attention redeeming qualities deserve.

The public seemed happier with the dogs there. This is not the type of venue that attracts the same surliness of the Department of Motor Vehicles. These are people enjoying a post-Jesus slice of pizza, perusing obnoxious copper fountains, hand built pottery, and fresh baked bread. The energy was palatable. Strangers approaching strangers, more confident postures and smiling faces. Easiness you fantasize about before slipping into that weird dream about the term paper, the sushi, and running naked through the airport.

Dog days shouldn’t have to maintain a negative connotation, especially if they bring out what is good in people.

I keep a folder for thoughts easily misinterpreted outside the context of the moment, which I don’t post. I may be stubborn, but I learn from my mistakes.

This creates an interesting dilemma. I don’t feel any better after writing about situations that trouble me, nor do I feel better after I discussing them. No sensation of weightlessness, no shifting karmic bile. Nothing. Mostly, I feel trapped. On the page and in real life.

The essence of who I am remains the same, and therein lies the problem. Adapt or perish.

I’m struggling. I’m not opposed to change. I makes modifications so as not to disrupt the continuity of the moment. I’ve worked on my temper, and avoided useless confrontations. But some alterations, are elements that make me who I am, not defects in character, as much as a difference in philosophy.

Adapting as a concession, and the notion one should transform for the benefit of the group pisses me off. I have never requested the group, as individuals or a whole, make concessions for my comfort.

Feelings don’t cease simply because the moment has past. It isn’t that I relish or feel justified in holding a grudge. Anger builds slowly and embers smolder.

I don’t feel like a partner in union as much as I feel like ship that has been sucked into the sea. My remaining individuality resides in these posts, and in studio flat files. Not much content of aside from abstract double speak.

Chalk Pastel

Do you remember I wish scenarios, kids sometimes play?

I used to wish I could I could fly, or if I couldn’t, my bicycle could. I wanted to be as agile and acrobatic as the gymnast I saw on television and meals that didn’t include vegetables, but always had french fries. I also remember longing to be invisible, a fantasy I haven’t outgrown.

Old habits die hard. I am attending an event in a few days and it’s makes me so anxious that I’ve actually contemplated rolling in poison ivy so I wouldn’t be required to attend. Right now, I wish I owned the tiniest of bluetooth ear buds, unnoticeable to others, but capable of receiving data from a discretely located Mp3 player. It would relay music without interfering with conversation. Basically, it would provide a soundtrack to life, without others being aware. Like music that naturally plays in your head, but with all the lyrics and better quality bass.

I don’t want to completely tune people out (okay I do, but…). I just want to hear music that makes me more at ease, whether it be the lyrics, the fluidity, or the momentum

. I’m less uptight when I’m absorbed in the image of seventy year-old woman walking from the refreshment table to the chorus of Garbage’s I’m only happy when it rains….and it doesn’t scar me life like picturing some people naked.

Other music included on my pretend soundtrack:

The Eels: Mr E’s Beautiful Blues

Elizabeth and the Catapult: Taller Children

Aimee Mann: Humpty Dumpty

The Shins: Gone for Good

The Commodores: Brick House

Hem: Carry Me Home

Modest Mouse: Float On

Neko Case: Porchlight

Sia: Breathe Me

Train: Mississippi

Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody

Tori Amos: A Sorta Fairytale

B-52’s: Roam

Air: Alone in Kyoto

Sir Mix-A-Lot: Baby Got Back

Beck: Earthquake Weather

Beth Orton: Stolen Car

Carbon Leaf: Let Your Troubles Roll By

The Cardigans: You’re the Storm

Counting Crows: A Long December

James: Laid

Liz Phair: What Makes You Happy

Mike Doughty: I hear the Bells

My Morning Jacket: I’m Amazed

The Bloodhound Gang: Fire Water Burn

Patty Griffin: Change

Placebo: Running Up That Hill

Ryan Adams and The Cardinals: Everybody knows

Turin Brakes: Painkiller

Cake: Sheep Go To Heaven

Right Said Fred: I’m Too Sexy

William Shatner: Common People

Ben Folds: Jesusland

Josh Joplin Group: Camera One

Cowboy Junkies: A Common Disaster

Harold Faltemeyer: Axel F

Village People: YMCA

Oil on canvas.