I've found that the less agreeable an animal is in general, the quicker he bonds with me. I try not to think too hard about that, but I do believe at least part of it is because they sense that I don't buy that beasts of lesser sentience
These prickly dobermans have been helping me tap into my competitive energy & to rise above doubts I didn't have before schizophrenia & warring (dis)realities
The dobes have been keeping me company while I overhaul everything to try to capture the essence of a man whose mother seems to feel he is the beneficiary of my exploitation. At first even her silences were filled with reproach. I've interviewed the parents, including one video interview, 3 times. I've tried to absorb the demands & ultimatums casually. I've rewritten every write-bite & backstory to accompany his photos. I've taken out the pictures they've disapproved of. I've set him up his own Corner of True in the largest room. His mother still considers 50% of the space~ without the blood, meat hooks, or ASAP music she'd originally despaired over~both trashy & traitorous. It isn't true or completely accurate. Well, it is usually the inaccurate stories that are complete, the accurate ones never are.
About half the ways this human tempest was differently there are now an absent presence. His mother's eyes are bright & piercing with panic while I keep switching out her word: recklessness for mine: romanticism. I have been able to gently suggest that she is working out some blame & guilt in the details. Very gently.
The only thing I haven't done is put in the stuffed animal that she gave me from his childhood, because this is 5% of an exhibit taking up 60% of my time. Although Boss has been very understanding about my need to validate this Mom's memory of her son, if any of this looks like a sequel to The Muppets Take Manhattan when I'm done, he will kill me.
On the surface, constantly submitting myself before the judgment of a still-grieving mother who lost her only son to AIDS seems like
And. I have my own schizophrenic philosophical conundrum. How can I, with bouts of unreality, terror-reality, & hyperreality, ever know what is true?
And. Her son is insistent at the window of my mind, beseeching. Because he knows his mother is lashing out at what she believes she has done & what she believes she failed to do. If I can get this right, attain some slender level of truth for her~ between here & gone, the nature of love & what remains~ he can move on knowing that she is going to be alright.
Over identifying? Why, yes.
Boss:(smiling perplexedly)You are dripping wax(picking up a small feather & sniffing it?) all over my blond hardwood floor because his mother asked you to?
Me:No.(pointing)In that picture he is Icarus.
Boss: Ah,I miss being odd & ardent(he is still odd & ardent). I've rewound some of the things you've said to his mom & played them in my head as if they were for me. But what happens if you can't get his mother closer to healing? And you realize that wasn't supposed to be the point of any of this? (I ignored that last sentence)
Me: I'm not allowing that as a possibility. I'll work on you next(he pocketed the feather).
Boss: Next? I think it may be parallel.