Oh Good, Grief.

Twice now out of nowhere, I've found myself sobbing in my bed, clutching my grandmother's ashes. Once about three weeks ago, and again last night. I'm having trouble with my mother, it seems that her way of channeling her grief may be to grill me and lash out at me about my life choices. By all visible accounts, I am as happy and stable in every way as I've ever been, which isn't saying there's not room for improvement (note opening sentence), but her supportiveness and open-mindedness of a few months ago appears to have reverted back to the judgement and lack of support I've received my whole life.

I'm moving to Louisville, now, in just a month. Friends were looking for a place for September first, and they love my home and were here last night to fill out paperwork. Assuming my landlords find no issue with their rental history or employment confirmation, they're in here in just over a month. Money from grandma's estate comes in, supposedly, around the same time. My mother doesn't seem to know any more details, and I don't want to grill my uncle who is the executor, since I know he's being bombarded by similar questions from other members of the family.

What this means is that I may still be living here when my friends move in. They hardly have any furniture, so I'll have moved most of my stuff out to be stored using these fun pod things we've got these days that come with a month of free storage, and then they'll ship said pods to wherever they need to go. My friends also want to possibly keep a lot of my furniture. In short, it's been made clear that I am welcome to stay here a week or two until I can get things sorted financially to make the move.

But, I am hoping it doesn't come to that. I am going to Louisville next week, and I am going to ask Joey if it wouldn't make him uncomfortable to loan me the money so that I can have everything settled and get there asap. He wants me there asap, he's offered to help me financially several times lately, and he's got the money to do it, plus I know that I can pay him back in a matter of just a couple of weeks.

Back to the sobbing, though. This week, my mom decided to text me, insinuating I'd sell off all my grandmother's antiques and other things I've got that are of some value, stating that "the past" dictates she ask this. I have never once sold off a single thing from my grandmother, or things that friends and family have given me over the years. If anything, it could be said that I hold onto things well past their value because of their sentimental worth. There is no way in hell I will get rid of any of these things. What I may part with are a fair number of mid-century pieces of furniture that are worth something and have almost no sentimental value to me. That's it. I have collected these things over the years as giveaways from various places or pulled off of boulevards. I don't know where she gets these ideas, and she's ALWAYS had these ideas about me.

She also grills me about my work. Though it's more complicated than the pat answer of, "I freelance, mom," she also has no reason to assume I'm not getting by better than ever. I haven't asked for money but once in probably two years. That doesn't appear to count for anything. She is hardwired in the belief that "work" means going to another place, punching a clock, and getting a single paycheck from one employer. When I tell her that that is just not how things are for a lot of people these days, that what I'm doing is what a dozen of my friends and acquaintances do, it goes right over her head. When I tell her that the money is erratic and yes, sometimes I'm really, really broke and struggle, but that I am happier and healthier and more stable in every way than I've ever been and set my own schedule and don't answer to anyone but myself, that all sounds like laziness and frivolity to her.

It was so nice, for the few months after Chris and I broke up, to have the mother I've always wanted. It's not easy to adjust to the idea that that was just her knowing her mother was dying and softening for a while. Apparently, we are back to the same damn thing that's broken my heart for the past 30+ years.

I prayed to my grandmother that if she could, if she could hear me, that she would let her daughter know that this is not helping me. That this behavior, which she believes is "support," and "love," only serves to drive me from her. My grandmother never approved of the way my mother treated me. None of my grandparents did. They saw the way she treated my sister as indulgent and over-protective, and her treatment of me unsupportive, often mean, and sometimes abusive. My sister has had her problems (conflict avoidance to a fault, a sniping brattiness here and there), but she has mostly outgrown that, and as a result, we've gotten closer (I, too, have obviously overcome several things as well), and she's less close to my mom.

In any case, one of my grandparents heard me. I had a nightmare, a dream I was in a car, something old, a sedan with a bench seat. My family may have been in the back, I can't recall. But I know my dad's father was driving. A country road, and the way the sky goes green just before a tornado. I used to dream about tornadoes all the time. In every one of these dreams, no one saved me, and I had to save everyone else. It was just my responsibility. Dreams about nuclear bombs, too, where I was the only one who seemed to know how to take care of everyone and save them from themselves. I used to have these nightmares two or three times a month. In the last few years, I almost never have them. I can't remember the last time.

Out of nowhere, a huge bank of black clouds turned into FOUR huge tornadoes in the fields just to the left of this gravel road. My grandfather just looked at me and smiled, and I smiled too, turning to the back seat to tell everyone it was going to be okay. Grandpa took a sharp right and drove right into the field on the other side of the road, toward blue skies. We both grinned the whole while. Once we were clear of the storm, I laughed and told him he could stop driving, that we could wait it out and go back. But he just kept smiling, and told me something to the effect of, "I am going to get you as far away from those storms as I can."

Putain de pluie. Putain de pluie. Putain de pluie. Fucking rain.

Beast Mastery

I've always strongly identified with Beastmaster. Sure, it's funny.

But can you talk to animals? Like, not just with your mouth, but with your brains? Cuz I can.

Or, at least, I do all the time in my dreams and sometimes in the really real world.

Like the time I met a wolf in the woods outside my grandparents' cabin. I was what, 11 or so? I gave him the 11 year old in the late 80s version of a nod and "'sup" and we just looked at one another for a while. I told him with my brains, "nah dude, we cool" and he gave me a wolf nod and turned to walk back into the woods.

That was one time in real life.

But in dream life, animals talk to me more often than humans, especially the past year, and there are definitely far more animals just running around in my dreams than humans, too.

Up until recently, I never dreamed about animals. What does it MEAAAAAAN!?!?!

After speaking with the capybera like spokesperson for the forest creatures Thursday night, last night I hung out with the feathered (?) hatchlings of a large iguana, who were sitting on the front stoop of the humble small-town Mexican home I was passing by on my way to get some sundries. The hatchlings were chillin' out with chickens and bunnies, and the folks who lived in this home could not have been more tender or proud. I obviously knew them well, and called them by name, gleefully shouting, "Oh, they've hatched!" The iguana mama and I exchanged knowing glances.

Then I wound up in my maternal grandmother's old house in Worthington, MN, a place I've found myself twice in dreams the past week (I took refuge there after being raped by a man in his 70s in full view of a gazebo full of people who ignored my cries). This time, I was watching America's Next Top Model after my family went to church (prior to that moment, the house was a huge, modern farmhouse and it was raining heavily; I was talking to my father about buying me a horse and also explained to him that I did not want to go to church and would instead prefer to worship in my own way, outside in the rain--the fact that I segued into watching America's Next Top Model is a little unsettling to that end), and a young, fat girl was there. She went outside, and when she came back in...

There was a great big farkin' OWL in the living room. I looked at her, standing in the doorway, "Did you let that owl in here?!!"

And then my cat Odin, stupid dummy that he is, walked right up to the owl and of course the owl went for him and cut him all up with his talons and flesh ripping beak, and then me in the process as I tried to separate them. My calves and ankles bleeding, I yelled at my sister in the kitchen (she was, for some reason, about 14 in the dream, she's currently 25) to grab a blanket and wrap Odin in it until I could get the owl out. Instead, she stared dumbly at me and went into the cupboards in the kitchen, rummaging for something.

I ran into the kitchen, screaming at her to do what I'd told her to do, and she stood up, holding something in her hand, looking proud. I slapped her across the face soundly and told her to do what I'd told her to, that this owl was going to kill Odin if we didn't act immediately.

And then I saw what was in her hands; potato chips.

Suddenly, in my mind's eye, what should have transpired unfolded: I'm feeding the owl potato chips, luring it away from Odin, Rachael is folding Odin up into a blanket and keeping him safe.

The world slowed, and I began to weep; "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have hit you if you'd told me..."

Beastmaster always made me cry.