Vinnie

Vinnie is sitting on my arm and chewing / licking the fur on his own. I wish he wouldn't. He's stopped kneading me in the belly at least. He appears to be immensely happy. If I liked him more I could at least vicariously enjoy his happiness.

This paragraph is from a review of a group of books about the prescription opioid epidemic going on in the US.



When I read this I recognised it as a description of exactly how I feel in the savasana / corpse pose phase of yoga. Absolute peace, contentment, stillness, balance and ease.

But right now at this minute there is a stupid cat sitting on my arm. Also there is a place on the skin of my throat that won't stop itching and I am extremely annoyed about almost everything. Anzac Day, stupid arrogant selfish people, liars, death, the weather, a smell in this room that I cannot get rid of and that sickens me to the pit of my stomach, the swallowing up of my time and energy in vortexes of rubbish that does not matter. Just before I woke up this morning I had a revolting dream which I am ashamed of and which I suppose I will tell my doctor about when I see her tomorrow, to show her that I have caught the note of reproach threaded through recent serialised conversations about whether I believe that I really am important to her as a human being and that she does not find me to be, in some unnameable way, lacking. She actually asked me that: do you believe that I care about you? And one of those very strange things that happens in psychotherapy happened: I couldn't answer, although I certainly tried to. I sat in a silence that is the polar opposite of the silence of savasana, and my gaze travelled anxiously around the room. It seemed that I could not say Yes but neither could I lie to her, even though I wanted to assure her that I have no doubts or hesitations that of course I know she cares for me. Some weeks ago I made her a sort of offering in the form of an account of something I've never described to any other person - a dream I used to have when I was really small and sometimes still have - and to be quite honest, I am disappointed in the interpretation she presented me with. The content of it was suitably and satisfyingly nasty, that's not the problem. Where I feel a little let down is in the singleness of the interpretation. I feel like if I kept on having this horrible dream for forty years it must have meant a lot of different things across that time. 

When I arrive at work at about a quarter past nine on Tuesdays I've already been up for four hours and it feels like the day should be almost over. I'm getting better at lap swimming, thanks in part to Leonard passing on to me some of the surprisingly technical knowledge he's acquired in his weekly swimming lessons. I do my laps then I get in the sauna, because I have this belief, although I don't really believe it, that heating yourself up kills germs. The same people are always in there on Tuesday morning. There is a very hairy man who must talk, and if he doesn't succeed in engaging somebody in a dialogue he rubs his fingers in a vigorous circular movements around the thicket of hair on his chest and it makes a sound.

After the pool I go to Carlton and eat eggs and read the Herald-Sun so I will have strength and know what it is that I am up against. Last week the waiter brought me a plate with three pieces of toast and one poached egg. What's this, I said to him. My goodness, what on earth is this? Is this a joke? I said. He appeared confused. Bambini? he said. I said no, Semplice, he said Ah! Semplice and he took the plate away and came back a few minutes later bearing the same plate only now it was sporting an additional egg alongside the previously presented materials. I felt humiliated and sad but I ate it anyway.