I pump myself up.

Like a parade balloon. I slump depleted, a heap on the sidewalk, useless, worthless, hopeless, why even try. Gradually words inflate me into shape, pump, pump, until I’m airborne, bigger than life, a favorite cartoon character, bobbing along the avenue, held down by ropes lest I lift aloft.

Prestige is imaginary. We matter as much as we think we do. Might, by an etymological accident, means both power and potential. What I might do makes me mighty.

I imagine wowing you. Fat chance, I school myself, but still the vision excites. It happens, no? Haven’t writers done it to me, infused me with vision and verve? Not many, but one is enough to prove my point. If I’m inflatable, mightn’t others be?

It is easy to wallow in despair. The facts are against us: we’re born, we die, our species will die, maybe our planet, what difference have we made? Puppy Henry never dreams of significance, so never frets its want. Life’s enough for him. Humans hanker for more – to have “made a difference.”  Things will never be the same without that old coot.

I boot myself from my torpor. The metaphor is almost actual. I harangue, berate, badger, mock myself, unfurling the same old arguments: Might as well make the best of it – if not now, when? Despondency sours the atmosphere, yours and everybody’s, so up and at ‘em, Adam!

Reinflation may take awhile. I read to get myself going. How about a walk with Henry. While sometimes grouchy, Henry’s never downcast. His world is always new, awaiting his inspection. Seeing, he reminds me, has nothing to do with the seen and everything to do with the seer. Wonders everywhere await – if you open your eyes.

Buffeted by my bromides, I begin. First one word, then the next. Drab, but no matter, keep going. Sequence is the genius of prose: how one word leads to the next willy-nilly. I follow my paper trail word by word, panting for treasure.

Words gambol as we go, do flips, crack jokes, tickle, tangle, make fun, mischievous as Shakespeare’s Puck. They eject me from my train of thought (a ramshackle choo-choo train headed nowhere). Sometimes they hold their noses or make rude noises. The adventure of saying distracts from the chore of being. Time flies – where has it gone? A page has filled – worthily? – well, let it sit awhile. It feels better to have done something, anything, even if it’s nothing much: award him a passing grade for effort, if not result.

The fatuity of my charade is obvious but so what? I never delude myself about my might (or might) at least for long. “I am a worm and no man; a reproach to man and despised of the people. All they that see me laugh me to scorn.” (Psalm 22). Roger that. Yet, yet, the giddiness of doing, saying, companionship – the companionship of words and you, friend, inspecting them.

If joy rises from mind, it behooves us to tend our minds. Science prescribes pills for sadness. In acute cases, these are lifesavers, I know from having been saved. But beware dependence. Sometimes self-stringency is the better remedy. Kick your spirits from their sloth, turn off the TV, force your brain to run a marathon even if it doesn’t feel like it, quit feeling sorry for yourself, you sniveler!

I’m a lot to handle. You may be too. Babysitting myself exhausts me. Then Henry ambles in and with a lick, inquires if I’m OK. I can’t help smiling. “Better now,” I admit, “having scribbled something.”