The Hard Ride
The ex GF dogs are gone. I am still a mass of guilt and shame over having had to take the second one to the pound and having generated such drama over not wanting to take ownership in the surrendering process. There was no need for the drama and the folks at the shelter certainly didn't deserve having our family drama flung in their face.
Paranoia is a part of this. Maybe it is paranoia. It is a simple fact that our culture is ever more lawfully integrated and saturated. In the end, the shelter officials forced ownership on me. Part of this morning's guilt and shame is built on 40 years of computer experience conjecturing where all my inherited crime is being processed this morning and what our bureaucratic law enforcers are merging the data. I have known entirely too many law-seeking caped crusaders to believe any name is safe in their data banks. They are no more sensible than the auto-correct on this flakey little touchpad which keeps stubbornly refusing to let me use complex conjugations or words that are not in a texting vocabulary. Foreign languages guaranteed to confuse.
Yesterday was a horrible day. The process of dealing with the ex GF dogs was long and grueling. Or, should I be calling her JAF? Just A Friend? I am far enough down the romance chain that she and I never got beyond friendly. I never did learn how to love her dogs. The romance I grew up with never made much sense to me. It makes even less sense to me with all the ex-levels it has grown since then. The great consistency which remains is that the most vulnerable members pay the price. The less the family member, the higher the price they must pay for all that glamour. Isn't it romantic?
This morning I strive to declare it done to the best of my psychotic ability and to re-open my heart and mind to the potentials of the two remaining dogs. Comforting my son's old dog who has been with me for so long that I feel bonded to him, despite the fact that it hasn't been all that long since my son has used him as a pawn in his power games. He is old and near death. It is my wish to comfort him. He is also well-trained for a pawn in adult-child-parent power games. It was my dream that mentoring my young dog would be his parting dignity. Perhaps I can still retrieve that dream from beneath the wheels of contemporary romance. Perhaps.
Perhaps paying the generational price of mental illness is all I am capable of.
Paranoia is a part of this. Maybe it is paranoia. It is a simple fact that our culture is ever more lawfully integrated and saturated. In the end, the shelter officials forced ownership on me. Part of this morning's guilt and shame is built on 40 years of computer experience conjecturing where all my inherited crime is being processed this morning and what our bureaucratic law enforcers are merging the data. I have known entirely too many law-seeking caped crusaders to believe any name is safe in their data banks. They are no more sensible than the auto-correct on this flakey little touchpad which keeps stubbornly refusing to let me use complex conjugations or words that are not in a texting vocabulary. Foreign languages guaranteed to confuse.
Yesterday was a horrible day. The process of dealing with the ex GF dogs was long and grueling. Or, should I be calling her JAF? Just A Friend? I am far enough down the romance chain that she and I never got beyond friendly. I never did learn how to love her dogs. The romance I grew up with never made much sense to me. It makes even less sense to me with all the ex-levels it has grown since then. The great consistency which remains is that the most vulnerable members pay the price. The less the family member, the higher the price they must pay for all that glamour. Isn't it romantic?
This morning I strive to declare it done to the best of my psychotic ability and to re-open my heart and mind to the potentials of the two remaining dogs. Comforting my son's old dog who has been with me for so long that I feel bonded to him, despite the fact that it hasn't been all that long since my son has used him as a pawn in his power games. He is old and near death. It is my wish to comfort him. He is also well-trained for a pawn in adult-child-parent power games. It was my dream that mentoring my young dog would be his parting dignity. Perhaps I can still retrieve that dream from beneath the wheels of contemporary romance. Perhaps.
Perhaps paying the generational price of mental illness is all I am capable of.
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