Stalling IV

Not a single one of my therapy supporters has admired my inability to process the still vague concept of, "Home." They seem pretty unanamous in their sense that the failure to process is more psychotic denial than nature. Indeed, there was room for many a psychotic break in the endless stream of packing for yet another change of address in my childhood. My packing skills remain far better developed than my social skills, wherever I find myself.

The projects here at the ranch are far from complete, but they are at a good stopping place. The cruel burn of August on the Southern Great Plains makes thoughts of heading north sound downright sensible. Work on metal roofs in that sun? You're kidding, right? Gentler weather is on its way.

The Breach of Contract in the River Region has progressed to discussion of criminal prosecution. Yucko bucko. . . Sounds like a road to the Gates of Hell to me. Still, there is that niggle from the factions who want to keep these things from happening to other people. Valid or not, it throws one hell of a piss-wet blanket over my river dreams. I am still feeling the call of the rivers, but the call has allot more static than ever before.

As I continue stalling between a proverbial rock and a hard place, the quiet voice keeps whispering, "Home." I donae believe the quiet voice is telling me this is, "Home." It remains an absentee owner investment property, complete with all the legal trappings of co-ownership. Coveted by all. Home to none.

In March, 2017, when I launched out of here on Big Bro's funeral pilgrimage, I was drowning in flashbacks to a child's eye view of evictions from farm properties similar to this one. In recent mornings I have come to wonder if the quiet voice is suggesting I finish processing the memories of that body of trauma. Just wondering. . . Easy does it.