Swerves

When I woke earlier Sunday evening I had a chaotic waking nightmare that my bank froze my accounts and I ran around to bankers at their desks pleading that I had to feed my cat, Oliver, and they kept saying, "sorry, we have to investigate your overdrafts" and these figures at gray metallic desks were none that I had dealt and sparred with at my branch, but Slavic of feature, then jump cut, as dreams do, a lavender room, with my dead cat, Oliver (picture Sylvester, give him a white fur face, black hood on his head, longer in torso than the average male with huge white feet) and my father walking out of it, throwing paper bills in the air; I grasped seventy dollars in my good hand, and got up shaken. Not an easy Sunday evening. This reflects my fear of losing control. I felt like the wife in Waugh's scathing satire, A Handful of Dust, and yes, the film was brilliant but exceedingly painful, a difficult movie to desire to view under multiple sittings. I felt like Kafka's protagonist in The Trial, not unusual, since Kafka understood the guilt surrounding disability. I dread praising Kafka, and my relationship to his legacy is difficult; for those of you who are canonical worshippers, I swear you off this morning in relation to my humility and appreciating strange genius. I come around and back again sometimes, like an elliptical orbit.