Writer's cell block

Around now, grief really feels like 'doing time.' I got one year down on my sentence. And a month. How many more? I can do it, I know it sucks, but I made it through the first year. Now I just need to get through however many I have left. Got used to the food, my cell, the shitty routine, yard time. Warden seems to like me, I guess that's good. Feeling this prison metaphor?

This will be the second holiday season away from my loved one in this solitary confinement. I'll live to have many more, and that's if I'm lucky and don't get shanked. My fear is becoming institutionalized, of forgetting what it's like on the outside. But I can't forget, just being trapped in this box is such a glaring reminder. And when I get to have my freedom back, I'll still be stuck with this on my record, just like any felon. But until then, I'm just doing time, the hardest time I've ever known. I'll do it, and loathe every minute of it.

Maybe, like prison, getting out is dependent on 'good behavior.' Which, to grief, 'good behavior' kind of feels like 'fake it 'til you make it.' If I do things that make me happy, eventually I will be happier. That's the theory anyway. But even after this much time, happiness is still a slippery subject. And when you're surrounded on five sides by cement and one side by iron bars, it's hard for happiness to stick - even if the cement are bars are just metaphorical. But every day I'll carve another tally mark into my wall, and every day I'll be a tiny bit closer to serving my time, and finding out what freedom has become while I was locked up.

Humpty-Trumpty sat on a wall

There's countless things I wish my wife could've lived to see: Lady Dynamite on Netflix, all my recent writing efforts, age 28. Donald Trump being elected president is not one of those things. In fact, she'd be horrified, like the rest of the rational world. If she were alive to see the outcome of November 8th's election, she would've been outraged, scared, protesting.

Actually, that's not true, we both lived through the Bush years, and we would've both lived through the Trump years. She'd be disappointed, maybe get a bit more cynical, but on November 9th, she would've gotten up and gone to work like every day. She would not have been rioting or throwing Molotov cocktails into Banana Republic stores because it sounds like 'republican.'

Together, her and I could've stoically faced the election of a bigoted, xenophobic, misogynistic, egomaniacal, lying, hot-headed, inflammatory carrotman - and we would've be just fine. Because we had each other. We would joke about how the comedians have their work cut out for them in the coming four years, how Canada has lovely weather this time of year. As long as the candidate didn't threaten to outlaw love, we would've been fine with the president-elect being an actual carrot. Am I happy with the outcome? Not in the slightest. But I have more important things to stress over, like how my wife isn't here to stress over Trump with me. The next four years are going to be pretty much unchanged to my frame of reference, whether the next president is Trump or Clinton or even that wingnut Shia Labeouf. (And besides, Trump can't really change much, the lizard men are in control.)

The LOL-ing Stones

Sometime earlier this week, a blog post was laid out for me, and I found it tonight. My wife's headstone finally got put in, and much to my lack of surprise, her family totally fucked it up. The reason why this is a blog subject is because I found it hilarious. I'm actually glad it took so long to come in, because if it'd come in even a few months ago, I might be kind of upset. But really, it's something she and I would've laughed about.

As I talked about before, at the funeral, one of her family members came up to me and asked me directly what I wanted on the stone. I said "She Will Be Loved" which is the title of our song and, in my opinion, a nice message for someone who's passed on. Ignoring that entirely, they put her legal last name in parentheses (she took my name when we married) and left her maiden name as if that were her married name. Bit misleading, if you ask me. Someone might think my name was her family name and vice-versa. They also included "Daughter, granddaughter, sister and wife" in that order, a clear attempt to minimize what I meant to her. If they all think they were more important to her than I was, I don't mind letting them think that, because I'm the one with the memories, not just the imaginative wishes, regarding her opinions. Could be worse, though. The only obnoxiously Christian imagery was an angel: at least they spared her the disgrace of an unwanted cross.

There's a chance that the reason the stone is so different from what I requested was because I remember hearing that the family member who would be taking charge of the stone was developing some kind of dementia. But from everything my wife told me about her family, it wouldn't shock me in the least if another family member butted in and took control for their own easement. And it was really similarly worded to the newspaper obituary, which I know wasn't composed by that particular family member.

I think the only reason I'm actually a little annoyed is because I'm the one who has to look at the thing -- because I actually visit her. My wife wouldn't be surprised either, to find out that her family used her headstone for their own self-centered reasons. But honestly, it has all the makings of a running joke between us, if, you know, she wasn't dead. All I can say is she died knowing who really did and didn't care about who she was as a person. Based on that gravestone, she was right.

As I've mentioned before, I'm working on writing projects inspired by and honoring my wife's memory. I think I know which memorial she would've liked better. But what do I know about my wife's opinions? I only have countless memories of her expressing them.

Sweet purrender

So I'm sat down to write for my blog and stressing because I can't think of what to write. Well, and I'm also stressing about whether I should work on my novel. Oh, and I'm also stressing because I have another writing project that is coming along. Well, two other writing projects. If you're keeping track, these stresses are all things I've put on myself. Oh, and there's grief! Which always helps with stress.

So with all these projects to work on, I ended up doing nothing but stare at the computer screen, schvitzing. Then, one of my cats, the one that used to belong to my wife, hopped into my lap. Annoyed the hell out of me, but I figured what the hell? Not like he interrupted me working. I started petting him. Then my cat came over and looked up with those big ol' jealous eyes of his. My wife's cat went up on the back of my chair (with some gentle shoving) and my cat took the newly-available lap. And for a while, I tested my multitasking skills, trying to pet two cats (who don't like each other) simultaneously (one of which was behind me).

With all my writey efforts and a regular job as well, my life has started to feel pretty complicated. Cats are simple. It's hard to imagine something so incredibly simple as petting a cat when your mind is running in several different circles. That's why they like to invade our space: to remind us that when we aren't sure what we should be doing, but have a million things to do, maybe the best thing to do is none of them: just pet a cat (if you don't like/don't have cats, then the cat is a metaphor).