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I promise that this blog will not become an exclusive William Burroughs affair. But, as I’m deep in benzo withdrawal territory, it will crop up in occasional clusters. Typically, when I cut my dose which I do on Tuesdays and Saturdays, the day after is a tightrope walk. If all goes well, and Jonquille (2) and Cassius (3+) don’t dunk their heads in the toilet or push one or the other down the stairs, I do okay. If, as happened last week, a gruesome stomach flu ravages the house, I’ll possibly tip on that tightrope and end up curled up somewhere, sobbing. Just for a little while. Until I regain a semblance of equilibrium.

It’s all grit and sweat, this benzo withdrawal. I honor anyone who has gone through it.

Left frame of stereograph

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So, I dropped last night. And the dreams came in like a carnival act. This happens. I don’t know if it’s accumulated night trash, or the neural cells cramping, but each drop is accompanied with epic dreams of people in my past. Boyfriends dressed in Goth attire, rubbing the inside of my thigh, or my father’s ex-wife running a carnival and trying to bring me in as a specialty act. One night only! In the Big Top! Watch the girl contort!

All this makes me think of one of Jonquille’s favorite nighttime reads: Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman. It’s a simple book, really, full of imperatives and straightforward subject/object sentences. It’s an easy world, a world where black and white dogs drive cars and sit on or under green and yellow trees. There’s little decoration, little in the way of literary ornamentation, and I think she likes this.

A favorite passage goes as follows:

Now it is night.

Night is not

a time for play.

 It is time for sleep.

The dogs go to sleep.

They will sleep all night.

 

Now it is day.

The sun is up.

Now it is time

For all the dogs to get up.

 “Get up!”

It is day.

Time to get going.

Go, dogs. Go!

 

This morning, I realized that on days after I cut my dose, I am in a Go, Dog. Go! world. I’d like to think that it’s a pared down existence, but it’s pared down only because any excess weight will crush it.

This is how it plays out on a Go, Dog. Go! day:

Now it is night.

Night is not a time to play.

The woman knows this.

The woman will cut her dose.

She will try to sleep.

She will dream of trash

and carnivals all night.

Now it is day.

The woman knows this

because her son is hooting.

Now it is time for the woman

to get up.

“Get up!”

It is day and the woman’s

son is hooting.

Now the woman’s daughter is crying.

The woman’s daughter needs milk and kisses.

Time to get going.

Unfold, and Go!

Go, Dog. Go!

You see? I unfold, just barely and I and go. I relax my jaw and go. I cry just a little while I’m brushing my teeth and say, just 8 more months, just 8 more. You can do it, you can. Just go.  Go, Dog. Go!