4 March 2023 — All that and dead cat stew?
Would that she’d remained at one of “our” rural homes. I may have had help burying her. Or maybe she’d still live, frolicking in the woods, feasting on fresh rodent, and shitting on the ground. Instead, I confined her to a tenth story sterile indoor environment akin to what the State of Oregon did to my mother: murder by house arrest. The funny thing about laughter, knowledge, and guilt is that they can all be shared without being diminished. At their trials, I see many standing to answer for Rosalie. I will answer for Tichelle.
The letter arrived, but I couldn’t get past the first few lines. Not that it was poorly written or anything like that. It was neatly typed, but the tone turned so quickly that my head locked up and I couldn’t bring myself to proceed. I neatly folded it and tucked it away to cool. I know I must address it, but my mind’s pretty crowded right now.
10 March 2023 — Meanwhile, my surgeon beat me up just fine on Monday (to repair my inguinal hernia), so now I am in even greater discomfort than previously, but the trend of recovery over the last few days is encouraging. Strength and appetite seem to be returning, albeit frustratingly slow. Part of my impatience is no doubt due to the long weeks of bureaucratic delay that characterizes the VA and its ilk. But I guess that’s part of the price I’m paying.
11 March 2023 –– The longer, and closer, and deeper the alliance, the longer, and more painful, and deeper the pain of separation. So, ending twenty years of alleged comity calls for a little more mourning, I guess, than ending thirteen years of battle (twice). But, as when a beloved pet (or parent) dies, we are reminded that, “Only love hurts this much.”
When it becomes clear that a consistently pursued endeavor will not yield the fruit desired, but in fact continues to foul the field, it may be best to reassess, let things stand as they are, and distract myself from it as best I can. But let them stand, always let them stand. Any less is a lie.
8 December 2023 — Note from a “loathsome, offensive brute”:
I may be locked out of SOME rooms,
but I haven’t forgotten the ponies in them.
(aka: ikyra)
It seems that I can never escape The Kramer, even if I wanted to. One of my neighbors here in Geezer Tower (Maybe some less offensive name? I might be “looking down” on someone again.) has put up a framed portrait of The Kramer on the tenth floor. Even though “he is a loathsome offensive brute,” and “I can’t look away,” (precise quotes might also be a problem) I nevertheless find the addition to be a familiar comfort (which can no longer be denied me simply because I believe that I have an immune system and that I am not a surgeon. Not quite “two in a canoe” but that opportunity has passed anyway… )