Gone Fishin
Well, ducks, I’m off to Stouffville. I’m unlikely to write here while there, since I do not want my mother to know of the existence of this blog. No traces must be left on her computer and no accidental seeing over my shoulder. I don’t care if other people’s parents read it, but I’m not ready for my own to do so.
There won’t be any actual fishing for me. Though my mom’s house overlooks the reservoir, so I may see people fish while I read the new Inspector Banks novel. I rub my hands together in anticipation.
In a more figurative sense of fishing, I’ve gone back to therapy. Writing She’s So Heavy made me realize just how angry I still am over the whole Bob episode. And why the hell should I be the one to carry it around? Fuck that. I’m sure he hasn’t lost sleep over it.
I love my therapist. Last night she said "One problem that many women have is that they are too fucking understanding." Oh, I love her and I love her. But not in a transference way, or anything icky like that. In a telling the truth and kicking my ass kind of way.
2 comments:
It was Ruby. I remember discussing her lovely belly button with you. Hope all is well with your mother's fish.
I can understand you not being ready for your mother to read your blog. I'm not sure I'm ready for my mother to read Asteroidea Press.
But if my mom has picked up on the idea of googling her kids (she found a picture of me leading a demonstration 23 years ago) your mother might not be far behind.
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