Claustrophobia?

My fear of entrapment has been one of the more elusive of my dominant psych symptoms to categorize, much less remedy. It winds multiple tendrils through my life like smoke from a wilderness campfire. The tendrils are always there but seldom substantial enough for definition. Those rare moments of substance are shattered by the slightest movement. For certain, it isnae a fear of small spaces. I can fold myself into a suitcase and stay there for as long as it takes for the danger to pass or for the opportunity to arise, whichever comes first. This morning, the wandering wonder is soundtracked by the voices of Randy Newman and Valerie Carter singing, "Oh, this world is dear to me, but heaven is my home."

As I watch the red and gold tones of the prairie sunrise fill the windows of the closet sized room in which I scribe, I let my thoughts skitter anxiously from LFL of projects I could use to focus this day and wonder anew if I want to trade those tones for the less familiar and predictable (by me) tones of the river region sunrise. It isnae the geophysical diffs which ride the smoke tendrils of the wonder. It is the commitment diffs. Here, I am an aging Toxic Mom, lost in assumptions from middle-aged children and a chronically busy old man which I can neither define nor understand. There I am a retiree taken at face value, warts and all. Mothers, toxic or non donae *get* to retire. Even through the body odors of middle age stress, your cherub is still your cherub. Physical distance doesnae change any of the assumptions, but at least I donae have to factor those facts into my day. There, I am just a retiree who wants to be a river rat when she grows up. Nobody ever asks what career you retired from. Officially, mothers donae *get* to retire, but I amnae above setting my own protocols. Just declare and hide behind the assumptions. The less said, the better.

The bantam chicks GS and I bought during his first days of vacation and Bully Rooster's feather pelt the strongest agitators of the smoke tendrils during this week's round of isolation. The chicks are the only reason I didnae load up Tiggy for the road trip north to the river region while hubs and the GK's loaded up for the much shorter drive south to the Urban Homestead. I considered leaving their open cage in the back yard to experience the trials of nature, but. . . Bully's pelt sits prettily where GD left it, wrapped around a drinking glass so his gold and grey feathers shimmer like a college profie at his lectern. How are those feathers still so pretty after 3+ years of shuffling neglect? There was much room to wonder if Bully's meanness was caused by the pretty boy syndrome. He is still purty, even without his head and the right wing I mutilated in my untutored second attempt at skinning. His perky tail feathers look like they could still spread into an attack formation. Not at *my* GK's, Little Bully! ! !

I am tempted to pursue the building of a chicken coop and the purchase of more chickens and possibly some ducks for the stock tank, but. . . Maintaining livestock is a hefty commitment, even for a Townie. For this beaten crazy old wanderer dressed in the illusions of maternal assumptions, it feels somewhere between unrealistic and impossible.

Sorting. . .

I started another robe for Hubby last night. This one will look like a standard techie t-shirt on the web cam. His co-worker's willnae ever know he isnae wearing his standardized blue denim beneath his talking head. Appetite good. Gut pain moderate. Still got my literal shit together. Guit-chi report: Just sing.