Creative Destruction

I am angry at the authentic pain of my grief, even though I'm as human as any other pet owner. My anger is due to lack of time for mourning, for the emotional investment I had, and like my investment in trying to change Frank, who is like Clifford Chatterley, for those of you who know your Lawrence, regressive without the veneer of much social polish , that investment will now have a decorative ash container for a focal point. You can envision me holding Joey's ashes in my lap, rocking back and forth, the inflamed blood pressure in my face about to burst, a fucking piteous hag whose attachment to this creature cost me over three thousand dollars. Considering that I have been unemployed more or less since AccessLife ended in 2001, we are not talking poultry feed, and I am angry at Marie, angry at my inability to say no to her. She nests everyone with a creature. Most Southern European families have these Dolittle characters, saddling everyone with a puppy or a kitten barely weaned.

All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.

Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.

I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?