In my desire to eliminate death and bring my little ghost boy a little closer, I stumble upon a question: Is the web possible without the spider? Of course I can’t answer this but the answer that wants to come is ‘no’. I stop in my tracks and a rush of debate floods my mind; ‘you’re an egomaniac’ ‘you’re only seeing from the spider’s perspective’ ‘this wont bring down the metaphorical Berlin wall between your world and your babies’ ‘forget that shit and make a decision about what you want to do for a living’.
But how can I drop this subject? Aren’t mothers always trying to find ways to bring their babies back home? I’m no different because I won’t accept death is an answer for the missing. If time and space are the software that allows me to keep everything organised in my head/universe then can’t I bend them? Rearrange them to suit? I need the baby file in ‘the life’ folder and not in ‘the death’ one. If I’m the ruler of my web, detecting vibrations along my threads that help to keep me fed, then surely I can spideee sense my way through this puzzle and action-hero my baby safe from the burning building fade of memory.
Communication coming to me from my grandmother after her death make me want to believe that important news travels instantaneously. And not unlike the real life news, it can sometimes be just the made up rambling bollox of your brain. But when it’s not, when the news coming from another world relates entirely to a specific situation, turns out to be true or spares us from suffering a hideous misfortune: it almost concludes that there is more in the fabric of the world than just the stitches we know make it us. An infinite ‘more’ that we will never be able to fathom. And what megabrain was it that said ‘the only thing we perceive are our perceptions’?
If time doesn’t exist independently of the life that notices it, then I can surely hang on to the threads of time, govern them, refuse to allow their affect on anything in my universe? And if I could know everything would I come to the realisation that just because I could it doesn’t mean that I should? I wonder also whether I conclusively own or govern all I see if, it wouldn’t exist without me, or whether another weather controls it’s seasons on my behalf. My questions are ubiquitous like grass.
So I’m deciding, as you can tell, to probably buy into this view. This biocentric way of thinking about things. Because it feels like it destroys the bits of death that frighten me and it feels like Dylan is somewhere rather than nowhere. Although I try to deny a flipside, there still is one. It’s obvious to the reader and it saddens me to consider. But if this is really my universe and my perception of it orchestrates the blooms and fades, then why did I choose the reality box where my child is dead and not the one where my child is alive?
We haven’t decided what he looks like yet, but we’re pretty sure he’s a mutt. Not a pure-breed or anything like that. A shaggy dirty proud looking mutt. But we love him. And I must say that picking up imaginary shit in the park, is preferable to real dog shit. The downsides are getting weird looks throwing sticks for an imaginary dog and the pisser of having to retrieve them yourself.
Rehoming Maurice wasn’t a completely selfless endeavour: we had a vested interest. The fictitious rehoming centre were really understanding about the reasons we gave and given that they have so many imaginary dogs needing homes, they were keen to get the ball rolling and give Maurice a new home. The relationship is mutually beneficial. Real dogs always seem to take precedent over imagined ones in peoples hearts and it’s just so unfair for all those ghost dogs and imaginary dogs having to suffer on the outskirts of the conscious world.
Lucky for Maurice, I’m not completely used to living with my mum yet (although it’s been 2 years nearly). And although I love the shit out of her, she is sometimes unwittingly trying. The need to walk an imaginary dog and get out of the house for an hour or so, proved to be the saviour of my emotional wellbeing this Sunday just passed. And though I know that living with her is a privilege and I have come to enjoy sharing a household with her, there are times when neither can I express my need for space nor could she take the mild rejection of me requesting it. So she continues following me around the house, and I try not to hate myself for the frustration I feel. Enter Maurice.
Going for a walk with him, the cold air brings down the swelling of my rage and I achieve some clarity. Some perspective. I remind myself there was once a time (which feels just like the distant memory of a novel I once read and not the actuality of my life) that I shadowed her so infuriatingly often that she hid in the toilet just to get a minutes peace from me. There was a time when I couldn’t stand the stretch of the emotional umbilical chord for even the few hours that I had to stay at school. I need to remember this because the tables have turned and I am obligated to her in the same way that she was to me. It would be wrong of me to disregard her and leave her for shit. Although many do (and God I envy the people who’s conscious allows this) and I don’t judge them badly for it because we each have to live our life according to what works best for us and who am I to judge anyway, I am the owner of an imaginary dog for fuck’s sake. Besides, it’s not just duty that binds me to her, it is love: and the second I put myself in her shoes and imagine what it must feel like for her, I refuse to accept any alternative.
For the times when we are laughing like mad bitches in the front room at some bollox on the telly or when she is being so unbearably cute I could just kiss her to pieces, Maurice sleeps quietly at my heels, undetected by my mum or the cat.