So...I didn't have Joey yesterday at all. I didn't do anything much. I think I would have done more if he'd been here.
Mary left him with her dad, in part because Joey's grandfather has been clearly lonely and feeling left behind. When I talked briefly to Joey on the phone he sounded fine, so they must have been doing all right together.
The gum tissue is growing over the bone, as we had hoped it would. The only thing for me to do at this time is keep it clean. So my next appointment to check progress is in two weeks. Yay! This is the first time I have felt it is really going well, not tentatively going well.
I thought I was enough past it, over you, but I guess I'm not. I still harbor resentments. I may actually be "getting in touch with my anger" at last.
This morning I happened upon something you wrote on your SF website about RW. You thanked the cast and Jim and crew and so on and also Dawn, for staying by you. I realized then that you had never thanked me publicly for anything, that I can remember. You never acknowledged publicly that we were a couple. I was there but I wasn't there. It was at your convenience.
It hurt me terribly to read your thanks to Dawn. Why? Why does it still hurt? It has been over a year now and I have met several men - nobody is in my life now, none went past a few emails or one meeting - I am ready to meet others, yet you can still hurt me in your absence.
I very much need to get past this.
I am reading a biography of W.S. Burroughs: Literary Outlaw. The writer worked closely with Burroughs and it shows. The down side is that the work does not, yet anyway, include the real thoughts of the biographer. It reads like it was written cautiously, to please a cantankerous old man.
And cantankerous he no doubt was, perhaps always, not just when he was older.
One of Burroughs' "early revelations": women are either evil or useless.
Another: there is a type of honesty and honor "among thieves" that is not found in polite society.
Yes, I think he deluded himself, saw things in rather a black-and-white way. Rather like my father did.
Burroughs' mother was cold, distant, and his father not particularly approachable either. An early nanny apparently sexually abused little Billy. But Burroughs insisted that his homosexuality had nothing to do with these things, that he was born this way. There is no way to prove it one way or the other.
The writer also tends to write in an almost-schoolboyish way, not quite fully developed. I wonder if this is an affectation of sorts or what.
A wonderfully visual feast, artistic feast, acting feast. Story of Frida Kahlo, Mexican painter, played splendidly by Salma Hayek, her relationship with Diego Rivera, her fight to overcome huge physical challenges, her remarkable, original, powerful personality.
I felt it had to be a labor of love. I know I feel drunk with its richness, and I feel much closer to Kahlo's work.