The other day, when I was maybe 11, I was killing time after school watching a thing called an “after school special.” It was a foreign film, some sort of Scandinavian production, presented with subtitles, självklart, that told the story of a boy, about my age, who was hurrying home with a gift for his mother, some sort of crockery that he’d purchased using money earned doing chores around the neighborhood. He was hurrying, as I mentioned, which led to him tripping on a root and smashing the crockery.

I remember feeling absolutely gutstruck on his behalf. So much so that I hardly attended to the couple, a young man and woman, both tall and beautiful and blond, who came upon him as he sat there crying. They buffed him up and bade him come with them to their destination, a little hut just a bit deeper in the wood.

What they were all doing out in the woods, I have no idea. I just assumed that’s how it was over there.

At any rate, they arrive at this hut and, whereas today it would likely reveal itself to be a DIY abattoir for wayward children, this was ’71, so it turned out to be a little studio that held a potting wheel, paints and a kiln. This couple sat the boy down, helped him turn out a very credible looking plate, upon which he painted, with simple bold strokes of red paint, a friendly dragon, if memory serves.

Everyone was delighted with what he’d painted–the attractive couple, the boy himself and me. The young woman held it up and admired it, smiling. Then she summarily dipped it in a white glossy liquid that entirely covered the design. It was suddenly just a white plate.

The boy and I were horrified–I can’t speak for him but I felt very much the same thing I’d felt when the original crockery had smashed, but this time there was this added feeling of betrayal and disbelief at the casual, careless nature of the betrayal.

“Vanta!” the young woman said when she saw the boy on the verge of tears.

“Vanta! Vanta!” the young man added.

I’m assuming Vanta is Scadanavian for “pussy.” The boy got his tears under control and the trio proceeded to place the plate in the kiln. Then they had tea and moments later, thanks to the magic of editing, they were pulling this thing out of the fire and the dragon painting was now visible again, vibrant and glossy on the plate.

It was a miracle.

They took the boy back where they’d found him and sent him on his way, smiling and waving and saying gå försiktigt which means, “look for our invoice.”

I was convinced he would drop the plate again but, in fact, the last scene is his mother opening the gift and just loving it. She said, I remember clearly, something that sounded very much like, Verkligen? Ännu en jäkla drakplatta, which must mean something like, “Am I dreaming? you’re my favorite child.”

The reason this comes to mind is probably pretty obvious. I was looking at Tanja tonight as we sat on the porch. She said:

“Sure, my hands tingle all the time, my shoulders feel like a block of wood, I can’t feel heat in my legs and my arms are freezing cold unless they’re burning hot, and they move like I’m a marionette. I can deal with all that but I cannot take this fucking collar anymore.”

And I thought, she really seems more herself than I’ve seen her in weeks. Her posture, her gestures, her energy. I feel that she is coming through the kiln and the underlying dragon, as it were, is beginning to show through more and more clearly. It’s a very unscientific observation, but I’ve had my eyes open, so I will stand by it.

Just four days on the Collar Countdown. A short time, but just try holding your breath.

Tonight’s song is one that I’ve never much loved, but tonight it popped up on the radio and, for the first time, I really heard the bass line and I thought, “Okay guys, I see you.” It’s probably the best known McFadden & Whitehead tune and it feels right.

See you Monday.