My grandfather is not long to be with us. I don't want to write about him on a forum where I post naked pictures of football players - he hates football - but that doesn't preclude navel gazing. I haven't lost anybody this close in 15 years and I think in a lot of ways 12-year-old have better mental equipment for this sort of thing than 27-year-olds. At my age, especially sans baby and responsibilities, one is enmeshed so deeply in consumer culture that the notion of loosing something you can't pick up another of from a specific store or internet site just boggles the fucking mind. Mostly I'm fascinated by my different comportment around different people as my brain struggles to deal.
1. General public = outright hostility. These days I hate the world for real, perceived and anticipated injuries. The real injuries come from living in an environment de-prioritizing these relationships; I don't forget the number of people shocked I went to Yorkshire instead of, say, Barcelona last March. Grandparents? Visit? Wha? Do they smoke drugs? The perceived ones come in imagining people want me to get on with caring about their own shit, which I can't and frankly don't want to. Finally anticipated - no one has said this to me yet, but I dread them doing so because it will probably inspire me to put the beats on them - consolations like "Well, at least he's had a good run!" I don't fucking care he's had a good run. I'm still losing him. Fuck off and die. Honestly.
2. Figaro = needy hostility. I don't usually tell people what's happening - unless I become visibly upset and need to explain that - because I don't think most people have a right to care what's going on and that any sympathy they demonstrate would be insincere. Figaro, however, has a right to care, and when he acts like he does I believe him and feel some comfort. And yet if he says anything like the wrong thing, I have to swallow a massive urge to say something nasty that I would never dream of saying to anyone else without deep, proddy, pokey provocation. Why are we such bitches to our lovers?
3. My mum = gross, circular schizophrenic sympathy. I want to make her feel better; more than anything in the situation I want to be able to comfort her. And yet she's my mum, so I want her to comfort me. But I know that's not her job anymore, at least in this situation. This is primarily her grief and I want to make her feel better; more than anything in the situation . . .
4. My analyst = snotty gulpy kiddy tears. I guess that's why he makes the big bucks, because they don't come out anywhere else, even though they always want to. Sometimes I think the combination of Calabrian appoggiarsi sulla famiglia and English Banker Stiff Upper Lip I was brought up with are what's costing me $60 a week with him.