Mom & Me Five Archive

...the one to catch up on all those draft posts. It's not yet midnight, of course, but I'm rather sure I won't be working on them between now and midnight. I'm usually in trouble when I have to "vow" to do something, anyway...that usually means I don't want to do it. If it needs to be done, well, it gets done; vows for those kinds of activities aren't broken. But, the posts aren't "needed", really. A couple are important to a couple of people (although, frankly, less and less so to me). Some are informational; some are celebratory; some are rallying cries; some are confessional; some cross categories. But, you know, it's been a gorgeous weekend...on the cool side of warm, breezy, sunny, great weekend for yard work and yard enjoyment. No, I didn't get a tiller. Seems Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend is the wrong time to attempt to rent anything that has to do with yard work; should have figured that. Not sure if I'll try tomorrow...I'm thinking, more, probably Wednesday. Mostly, when I find some time to write, instead I've been zoning out in the yard. Haven't been able to get Mom out, much, although she did go out twice and both times mourned, with me, the havoc either the deer or javelina (probably both) did to our roses, the delphinium and the tomato plant, but they're recovering, and I'm fully stocked with garlic oil concentrate stuff, now.
    I've noticed a bout of Not Caring sneaking up on me...not in regard to our little family of Mom, the kitties and me, but about everything and everyone else, including estate business, about which I'm scolded, regularly, by The Literature, I should care, and certainly I've worried about it, steadily, for years...but this weekend I entered this, hmmm, well, I guess you could call it an "area", wherein I'm finding the idea of leaving the estate in its current "Gail's life gets split four ways upon Mom's death (even though no one else's life will be altered by her death), she essentially ends up with nothing because what she'll get won't be of use to her, seeing as how she'll be homeless and penniless, anyway" state hilariously and entertainingly absurd: Contemplating my relatives rooting around in an outdated will, trying to snag their share of what's listed but no longer exists and what's not listed but does exist, because, of course, since the will wasn't changed, that must have been what Mom wanted and too bad that Gail didn't fight for what she needed, oh well...you only get what you fight for...she should have put out a little more effort...
    Yeah, right. One more thing for Gail to do.
    Maybe my fundamental attitude will change, but, you know, maybe it won't. The one thing St. John's Wort hasn't done is change my attitude toward human life in general, that I'm not really interested in it once Mom kicks the bucket...too fucking ridiculous for me and, I notice, it's getting more ridiculous every day. I think I have only enough caring left to felicitously usher Mom and the kitties and me through the rest of her life. I'm looking forward to that. But, nothing else.
    I'm anticipating future periods, perhaps one will coalesce soon, wherein I'll feel like playing the caring game. It is, after all, an engaging activity. I'll look like I'm caring; I'll act like I'm caring; I might even feel like I'm caring, possibly I'll believe I'm caring. But, you know, I think, fundamentally, I'm done with serious caring. I guess that's called Being Cared Out. I vaguely remember ominous talk about this state. Now, I'm here and I'm realizing it's nothing to fear. It isn't half bad, in fact. I mean, you know, when you're cared out, there is, truly, nothing to fear.
    I'll continue writing. I can't discontinue writing. It's automatic, just as is much of life. I do it in my head...so, of course, I'll do it on a keyboard.
    I'm so sick and tired, though, of Giving a Shit. I'm really not interested in giving a shit about anything or anyone, anymore, except our own little family and our shared lives. When that gets blown apart by Mom's death, well, thank the almighty gods, I expect to be free at last.
    Later.