in which a ferret goes missing

it is a rather long and sorry tale that of the ferret and one I feel I may not forget.
the ferret saga is maybe over as it has once again escaped and this time may not return since it has escaped at night and like a person lost at sea at night, the likelihood of it being safe in the morn is smaller than if it escaped first thing in the morning, with the day to search and wait...to call and hope.
I never wanted the ferret. My son did. and he asked and asked and asked until at last weak with exhaustion and guilt and confusion i consented.
since the very first smell of musky sour hormonal piss; the glimpse of small sweet face and writing body i have not felt truly comfortable.
that it needs a playmate or three hours play a day, that it scratches away at it's prison door at the back of the garden... that it runs long rat like past your feet and nips... that and many other things i did not want it in my life  or in my vicinity.

it has now escaped a few times from poorly constructed runs in the garden which it has inevitably escaped from. screams are heard up and down as neighbours think it is a rat. it has returned.
but maybe not this time. and though I actually feel quite sad for the ferret and lament it's loss and genuinly don't want to think of it alone again without my son to like it, I actually feel that perhaps this horrid chapter can come to an end and I will never say yes again when I don't really mean it.

try to tell it like it is. i drank too much this evening. a bottle of white and a can of lager. the day was long and it consisted of avoiding my father who thinks i bring up my children and my bereaved nephew badly, that they are too free and i am to liberal. so i drink because it is all too much. my life is like something out of a Charles bukowski novel except i am not whipped on a daily basis. maybe i was when i was small. i cant remember.
ok so it's not he great depression but times are tough. money is like a constipated fountain. it doese not spring freely and there is not enough.
the people in my life are generally messes they are wrong and not right

you couldn't make it up

just read ham on rye (of which there was none) by charles bukowski and i now feel fairly liberated and nihilistic. i am now on a bukowski roll and will next read 'hot water music'
i really like henry chinaski and totally empathisse with him.
i think i like his drunk, tough sense of resillient nothingness.
and yet i still am a mum and a daughter and a sister and all the rest and i somehow have to be all that while inside a henry chinaski simmers.

i mean you couldn't make it up the life in which i inhabit.
i won't even write of it here it is too much, too fucked up.
i can't write the truth as the truth does hurt, yes, it hurts and i can't handle it.
and yet perhaps that would be the best thing.
but truth is never the truth it is just the view from one set of eyes.
i am too considerate to consider my view the truth. 
surely each perspective considers it's view the truth?

any way
...................................

it is odd really, and then not really. i spend the days doing the things that I do and I have so much going on in my head. as soon as i sit down to write-usually half cut, the computer either starts to freeze or i have absolutely nothing of any substance to write about.
the end.

on writing

over the last few days i have wanted to write so much but have been so consumed by life and it's protuberances that the wood has been too close for the trees or something like that.
i cannot say much about the actual happenings of the days, they have been convoluted and full of small discoveries; sad awakenings; cruel facts of various kinds. then of course there has been the bread and butter kind of reality that is inescapable.
in terms of what and how i would like to convey, through writing, something and at some point, i realise i need to really find that voice inside; or really link it to my fingers. i need to be honest, like you might be to a close friend or someone you trust. i need to write like i think, or talk, and lose all inhibitions. like when you are with a friend or even with your self and no holds are barred. your thought is free and colourful, sometimes debased and sometimes divine. that is how i want to write, for better or worse. i am tired of the translator that lives somewhere between my brain and my fingers and wish to now execute that translator.
i will sleep and see if he/ she is dead in the morning.