The Monkey's Fist

I wish I could've kept this blog exclusively about philosophical things.  Or rather...  maybe I don't really wish that at all especially since with this post I go against being 'about philosophical things'.  And if I DO what I want and wish, then what've I to complain about?  

It doesn't even matter.  Philosophy is life and the other way around.

"Feeling..."

My tendency is to put feeling low on the totem pole of importance.  Pushing that bubbling chemical-spiritual sensation (which likes to tingle somewhere but nowhere identifiable within the body) deep into the recesses of my subconcious, where my dragonslayer shaves a few hairs off the beast before its prickly maw beckons to eat me.  Sometimes I have to deal with my emotions.  I  feel like a woman when I do.  I know that people ought to have emotions.  It's as natural as rationale.    Sincerely, I'd rather be a rock.  Or maybe I don't and that's my macho-wannabe ancestry pricking my neck  from beyond the grave, begging me to uphold that standard of manliness that was deemed standard by whowhatwherewhen a hundred years ago.  

Is there a proper way to give a tribute to feeling? I am trying to make peace with the monster but I don't know how.  I think I feel like I am supposed to feel something about the abstract concept feeling.   Like LOVE, "Feeling" doesn't pass the bottleable test; so they're both metaphysical ideas.  Except I know that I do feel something sometimes... about "feeling."

Although...  usually, I get away with not feeling anything.  I'm used to putting aside what I'm supposed to feel.    I read somewhere that when we're babies, we learn how we're supposed to feel by learning the reactions of others.  So what happens  if I was raised by sociopaths or by emotionally neurotically dispondent parents?  Am not saying that I was or anything... but how would I know in the first place?

My dog died.  The  cutest puppy in the world is gone.   Her name was Nabi.  Forget how she died.  Why do people care about that sort of thing?  Here's a thing about feeling that I'm more interested that if I catch myself asking that question sometime, I'll remember to remind myself that I'm doing it out of a rehearsed response.    I should realize that when I get the answer to that sort of thing, I'll be none the better than I was before... neither will the person that told me.  The curiosity of the the thing might  incline a person to ask "how did she die?"  

But I wonder that maybe we're curious just because we're supposed to be or because we hear the questions asked all the time when we're growing up.  Another question I hear a lot that I don't understand comes up when people meet a new dog for the first time.  Even children that have no idea what it means to ask...    "what breed is it?"    I must have heard that question a million times while parading Nabi around the FIU campus.  The puppy couldn't go anywhere without a chorus of "awwww"  and a horde of petters stomping over to touch Nabi's fur.  Then they'd ask,  "what breed is she?"  I wonder if people keep track of that sort of thing for future reference.   Next time I meet a girl with slanted eyes I'll ask her "what breed are you?" instead of "where are you from?"  which I understand only just a little better than the breed question.

Breed is a funny thing... a dog ain't a breed unless it has pure-blooded parents.  So the breed question can't be compared to "where are you from?"  I'm tired of talking about breed and the damn question.  I can't imagine a world without breeds of pets to compare...  if all dogs were mutts then where would we be?  How would we conduct dog shows?

Anyway, we got another puppy.  And she's dying ...  maybe.   Tippi is sick and in the vets office right now with an IV drip in her veins because she throws up everything she drinks or eats.  It's not even a month since Nabi's death.  So how do I feel?       I don't even know.  

Frankly, if I keep up this conversation about feelings, I'll start to worry about how I'm supposed to feel and that'll pressure me into feeling guilty about not having the right feelings.  ugh.  feelings are exhausting.

I wish I could have made this post seem about something other than about my dogs. But in the end, I can't.    It's funny writing down my feelings because I don't feel them anyway.  When I say funny in that context, I mean it's ironic.   I know I feel something but I can't say what or where.  I feel nothing but I feel something.  My face doesn't even care that there's something going on inside me.    So maybe I'll end the post by asking whether or not this sounds normal to whoever is reading this?     

Ha.     If I get a response, then I'll know how I'm supposed to feel?    Damn that supposed to.  It's a load of crap. Maybe  I even want to turn to it just because it's already there?  That makes me lazy, I guess.   I'm dissapointed this is such an informal posting...   an adequate tribute to feeling, I guess...