So I turn myself around, deciding I don’t want to wait for my sins to cook. Back to the dog park, to face fear. Like two mermaid summoning swimmers treading within an empty dust bowl, we wait for another dog to enter. Electricity hangs around my groin, a sacral swirl. It is a common occurrence, during times of nervousness, giving me something to play with, a bulge to tug at, masturbating when able.
I pull, stretching this sacral energy like taffy through my entire being, parading like something taller than my actuality, fragile with tensile unreliability, knowing that a snap in the right place will send my entire artifice crumbling to piss in my pants.
A curly brown dog finally enters. The owner seems hesitant. That is never a good sign. I try to play fetch with the dog, tossing the ball; but neither she nor Charlo will retrieve it. I do my best to take this dog as my own, having the notion that the only way for me to win this battle against fear is for me to raise my energy to the top of my skull and hit the alpha bell crown, ringing as pack leader for the entire world to hear. The woman chuckles, watching me. That’s good. It’s a sign of good rapport. She is letting me play my wacky game. If Musette were here she’d probably tell me I’m acting a fool. But she’s not. So I have the experimental freedom of my own solitude.
Another dog enters. This dog is wearing a harness around his body which looks like a jacket. A real sporty guy. He will fetch the ball.
“What’s wrong with you Charlo!? You jealous?” I yell, playing ball with this new kid.
I can tell he is. He’s chosen to sit in the corner. He’s got this look on his face like, ‘I’ve been replaced.’
I’ve let my energy go too much to my head. So I decide to cool it, because I realize I’ve been being a real douchebag.
But the energy doesn’t just disappear; it gets translated into the other dogs. The jacket wearing sport keeps playing fetch, now delivering the ball to his true master instead of me. But the brown poodle doesn’t want to play. She hasn’t from the start. She’s more interested in Charlo.
She starts nipping at him. Her master is timid, not taking enough initiative. Things are progressing into the danger zone. It’s palpable. My energy has returned to my weiner, but watching this dog take advantage of sweet Charlo sends it shooting, naturally, not like taffy, back up to the tip of my head, sending a ringing ‘Shush!’ from my lips, halting the curly brown dog in its tracks, reflecting the warm comfort of personal power back into my heart.
The situation cools. The dogs timid owner steps in and leashes her dog.
“Sorry.” she says. “She can get a little bitchy sometimes.”
I give her a good riddance. The sporty chap is enthralled by his fetching. It’s just Charlo and him in here now.
I consider the mission a success and take Charlo home.
The Red Dawn of Saint Simon 