Neue, Nu?

 Dear Will --

AI Gustav's "Portrait of a Small Poodle"

Last week's New Yorker had a snarky review article about Klimt in the Neue Gallery.  The writer was pretty rude about the artist and I disagreed throughout. Nevertheless, the article of course made me think of you introducing me to that gallery the first time we went together to New York.  The last time we went was in 2015 when you were already so broken. What a terrible trip that was.

But the Neue What a wonderful space. How fun to walk in that neighborhood. How fun to go from room to room. I was remembering the dark shows and the light. And the wonderful early 20th Century display chairs and tables.

At some point I'll be able to go back to New York. I want to. But I'm not sure when it will feel okay for me.

I've attached Klimt's portrait of Winston.

Love you forever,

Kake

So funny

 Yesterday as I was crying/howling in her office, Sarah told me that my way of doing grief -- through feeling all the feelings as they occur, "is the fastest way to move through the journey."

And I just laughed and laughed through my tears. 

These two years (9 years with the dementia grief) have felt so fucking long.  When will I know who I am? When will I feel okay in the world again?

Anselm

 Dear Will:

Anselm Kiefer The Orders of the Night (Die Orden der Nacht), 1996, from Gagosian Quarterly

I'm almost sorry I called you in to watch the Anselm Kiefer movie with me. Wow. Talk about your European pacing! Wim Wenders is definitely not Errol Morris, though in this flic it seemed like he was trying to be, what with all the story telling parts coming out of screens within the screen.

But wasn't it interesting to find out how late we discovered the master? Not until 2003. Or was it 2006? I forget when and where it was that we went to a museum in either Scandinavia or Deutchland and had our first socks-being-blown-off experience of his work.

And weren't his gigantic workshops, as displayed in the film, fascinating? Ceiling high stacks of objects and stuff. But I thought it was sad sad how he wasn't smiling when he was setting fire to that one big painting. He should have been having fun. But he seems like a very serious creator who does nothing else but create.

But even though it wasn't that enjoyable as a film, I loved the section in Anselm where we saw SO MANY PAINTINGS! So many of those gigantic pictures. And so many so beautiful, not just meaningful. I may, in fact, fast forward through the film again just to watch those scenes again.

And remember finding that one giant picture in a gallery in San Francisco, priced at only 25 thousand?

As for Wim Wenders. Remember when I drove us to fucking Provo to see Kings of the Road? That would have been shortly after I graduated. Before or after I started at KWIK?  I can't remember. Nor can I remember the drive back to Salt Lake at 11 o'clock.  I'm sure we didn't try to go the all the way home after but now I can't remember whether we stayed with Rosemary or at the downtown Motel 6.  Before your dementia, I could have asked you and you would be able to tell me. You had such a great memory until you didn't.

I miss so much talking with you about art and movies. And just sharing our history of looking and watching. Our search for all the Caravaggios in Rome. Our hunt for all the Munchs in Norway and Sweden.  Whenever I think I might want a close relationship with another person, I think about how much life experience occurred in fifty years and realize it would be impossible for anyone to compare or adapt.

   "So I'll go to my grave lovin' you."

They Hold Onto My Fur

The Kiffness and Oh Long Johnson

Yesterday my grief therapist got back to me and we talked for almost a half hour on the phone and agreed to go back to once a week.

I also spent time, after doing some altar guild duties, to sit down with my friend and priest, Jeff.

Both of them said that I'm not a bad person. And, since they are both authority figures to me, I had to accept what they said. At least a little bit. Out of respect. 

So maybe it's possible that I could be a not bad person. It helps me feel better about continuing. And my grief therapist reminded me that I have been okay (okeh) in the past and I can be okay in the future. And hey look, I'm 2 and 1/2 hours into the day and I haven't cried yet, which makes today different than the past week.

"Hold onto my fur I like it
When the dogs are barking"

update

 This space was empty but now it has something.

update

 A comic by bird expert Rosemary Mosco created after the death of her father.

New to me song

This song  by Danny Gokey called "I Will Not Say Goodbye," is at least 13 years old but new to me:

Lyrics: 

 

today

Advisors

Around the time June Jhumpa was adopted

When I got deeply depressed in graduate school, my dissertation advisor told me to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get out of my funk.

I didn't have the ability to tell her, "Mental illness doesn't work that way."

I occasionally search google to see if she's dead yet. She isn't. But others are. Like the one who sang to us, "You always hurt the one you love," as an introduction to psychological criticism.  If Will were here he'd laugh with me about the mustard-colored suit Sillars wore when he sang. And then the one who said he was my friend and then gaslit me is also alive. Sometimes I wish we were still friends but then I remember he's a dick.

The high school teachers I loved are all dead, of course - Mr. Barrans, Mr. Ridgely, Mr. Glasner, Mr. Negendank. I think about high school because that was the last time before Will died that I was alone like this - when I was living with family. But then I thought I had one friend who loved me as I was. But that friendship is gone as well, as least in its classic form, though it died long before I was ready to pronounce it.

Last week I was a bit of an advisor as I spoke with A. whose wife has dementia. A. told me that when she had heard the story of my putting my hand through a glass door because of mindless rage she'd thought it was extreme but now she has realized that it wasn't extreme and I told her "I'm sorry you have that understanding now."

Terri arranged our first meeting of Grieving Souls group at church. Originally it was supposed to be widows and widowers but that wasn't "diverse" enough, according to the church people who have a say in such things. Frankly, I feel angry that I need to share a group with people who have lost their pets but whatever. Every grief is a grief, huh? We're all equal. Like the women whose butts were grabbed and those of us who were gang raped.  All equally suffering harassment. I'm so glad that Terri has the determination and facility to reach out. I didn't and don't. And it's great that I now have someone to take me to and from my next colonoscopy. That's one of the purposes of the group, to give people who don't have other family or friends' support. And it's good that I will be able to provide support for others.

I have gratitude every day for what I have. I am financially secure and what's more important than that? 

At the same time I am sad because I've lost the one person who loved me as I am.  But that's okay. At least I got that experience and many people do not.

Every day, lately, I see in my head the image of him in his diaper, weighing 112 lbs, walking into our bedroom after escaping the hospital bed in the living room, with a big, childish smile on his face after surfing the wall down the hall.  That happened just as I was arranging with College Hunks Hauling Junk to take our bed away. He would be dead within six days.  Or I see his dead face in the reed coffin in the graveyard when I had to touch it one last time. He was so cold and hardened from the embalming fluid.

At least when he was alive, even if he didn't know me, I could hold him.  At least when he was in his coffin I could still touch him and feel that so-well-known profile.

I miss him so much every day. And he's dead every day. Every fucking day when I wake up he's still dead. Sometimes when I hear noises in the other room I call his name. I pray to feel his spirit touch the bed again. But someday I won't wake up and our spirits will be together again. I live in this hope.

And anyway, I deserve all this suffering because I wasn't "there" for some other people when they were grieving. This is just karma doing its thing. As the late Malcolm Sillars once (or twice or a million times) said, "Work is good. Suffering is better."

So I'm fine.

sobriety

No weed for over a week. 

wikicommons images of old Chong and Cheech

And yes, Cannabis Withdrawal Syndrome is a thing.  A thing in the DSM-5.

Fortunately, my withdrawal symptoms are almost all physical rather than mental and have been moderately well-managed by the gabapentin.  The restless leg has been more annoying than the nausea but I can feel it gradually getting less jumpy. Last night I slept through till 4:00 am. I don't seem to be any more depressed or anxious.

So, I'm feeling better. I'm reading articles about weed's dangers (strong connection to heart disease and loss of certain brain functionality) to further encourage my transition. 

A 10 at Exercise Coach this morning

In the meantime, I'm also doing some odd exercises for my tinnitus self-treatment. The weed helped me ignore the sound so now it's louder and more annoying but I'll adapt. After all, it's just my blood telling me I'm still alive.

The bottom line is, because I am enough, I'm finally ready to do more stuff.  And like Ken, I want to become "great" at it.