Angry Geese, Tromping …

The geese were so mad yesterday. A pair of them flew to sit on the roof of the library to overlook what is madness to them, what is the creation of the new park to us who understand (?) what is going on. Humans. Argh. Sigh. Six more geese cried out from a pseudo balcony of green just small enough for them below the parking lot at the same time. I tried to assure them by acting and walking very calmly by, but when, I couldn’t help it, I looked back and saw something that disturbed me and shook, they squawked, for apparently they had been watching me.

Today was somewhat better, with a pair of geese having returned to the center of the bog, which is the pond where they mate and raise their young, somewhat successfully. I won’t go into the matter of the needs of the beautiful hawk and its young. Argh.

Anyway, the strange cycle of Nature notwithstanding, the geese were there and I nodded and blinked at them assuringly as we walked by, while the buzzing and whizzing and sawing and fencing work continues. It’s looking much tamer and neater, I must say, reassuring myself, since we walked at 9:30, they’ve been very busy. For there was fencing covered with black tarp, protecting the remaining wildness, kind of.

Chipper happily tromps by all of this seemingly undisturbed, and then midway decides to have his constitutional, much to the merriment of three workmen in safety hats, mid-fence work down way … Oh, hey, yes, I pick up the poo, merrily, yes! It’s what I do — I’m the Mom! And they were laughing as if someone in a white tee and white linen maxi should be capable of such a thing as … well and so! and so!

Every day and several times and so!

Cheers!

and we tromped along along!

Counseling was very good … we spoke about how I don’t seem to be capable of feeling that any of my anger is good. All bad. We decided that I can paint it, write up terrible characters, (snarky, not killers, I said, giggling) sing it out, hmmm, feel it … Sex, she said, but we shook our heads, not an option, that is an old voodoo — no — bad territory.

We spoke about getting away from the “cult” that was my set of abusers, how I had to take steps that even today I still felt guilty for, communicating initial boundaries, like how I wanted them to write me instead of being around them because being around them made me want to die — how me wanting to die seemed so irrelevant and empty threatly to them — so it seemed at the time — like, so? — so little power and respect did I have around them — it was gaining power to communicate to them, to take these small steps — so we talked about that until I felt no more guilt and felt empowerment instead. Amazing shift in perspective for something that happened first in 1987.

Came home and did the dark heap of laundry gladly. So cathartic. Need the stretchy clothes for physical therapy.

Mulched the garden.

Wrote the update email.

Have not yet painted. Forgive me, I must rest.

Advertisement

About amyjacksoncc

I am a professional artist, writer and musician creating from my home studio. To view my artwork, visit http://www.amyjackson.cc
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s