Rant & A Realtor

I watched a movie Saturday night that turned out to be far more interesting (and painful) than I thought it would be. It’s about a gay couple who are divorcing, and that quickly leads to the brutal and passionate fight over custody of their son, Owen. 

The writing is good, the custody battle feels real, and to complicate our opinions and feelings—we the audience—in deciding who should gain primary custody, Owen is black as is one of his parents, and the biological son of the other. I really enjoyed the film.

However, there were tears and heaving because as the plot moves into the custody battle, it infuriates me and pains me to see the powerlessness of Owen. His voice is not part of the process. So many of us are disgusted by photos of the largely male, largely fat, largely old politicians opining and voting on abortion. Well, rightly or wrongly, I feel that way about children being chattel to their parents, custodians or the court. Adults and agencies own children. No child is free.

Most of my anger about what happened to me with the Tyrells, is directed at the church and the state who did two things that make me want to murder: the championed the rights of my parents to privacy over my right to know my paternity and lineage. And neither the state nor the church who ran the orphanage, did any follow-up on their placement. My biological parents, my custodial parents, the church and the government all betrayed me.

I am a master crack slipper.

Forgive the rant, and please don't think to yourself, "get over it" or "move on." I can't. If I Could, I would be the first person to self heal from the double whammy of C-PTSD and FND>

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Sunday was pretty great. It was sunny and bright all day, we did two walks, one up a hill that kills me to climb. And I Zoomed with my fellow BC stutterers. It’s a small group, but we’ve become good friends. I am deeply attached to them. Then lunch. Then a wee bit of reading, and then the hill.

Then it was time to build up the fire, so I went to the farthest woodshed, twenty meters (?), and came back carrying one large and one small piece of wood for the fire. I was heaving for air once I dumped them on the hearth. What to do? What to do?

I wrote to the realtor I like, and she is coming here on Wednesday morning. I’m going to ask for an appraisal and tell her I’ll be in touch once I understand my breathing problem and my prognosis. I’m going to ask her how one can manage the risk of selling before buying and tell her I am willing to go onto the big island for the right place. My objectives are to limit work and have less cash in real estate and more in the bank.

A move may be afoot, and it breaks my heart. This place is perfect, especially for the cats. The cattery I built for Fred and Ethel is a godsend to us both. I barbeque in there during blackouts because it has a roof. Ideally, I will move to a smaller place here on Gabriola.

We walked late in the afternoon and happened on an ex-student of mine who was walking his dog, a young dog who was very excited to meet Sheba. His excitement caused his owner to leash him, and to tug and snap on the leash and often to strike the poor little guy. It was very upsetting. I could hardly wait to get back in the car and come home.

And what a joy to come home. I love Pinecone Park and my life here with Fred, Ethel, billions of wild birds, and Her Highness.