getting organized

Let's see if I remember how to do this;

1. one section is a "brain dump"--each page is dated and anything and everything goes there:  dates that come up, projects to work on, tasks, data such as phone numbers, etc.
2. To do list:  hold on, I think I would like these things on one page.  yes, why didn't it think of that.
3. and a calendar

Bridge over a hole

So I am imagining a hole in a wide plane.  The plane would be my life.  The hole would be the hole left by my parents.  Now I'm envisioning a bit of festering on the edges of the hole.  What is festering?  Is it me?
Anyway, I am also picturing a bridge over the hole.  A simple unadorned bridge arching gently over the hole.  And then there I am, walking over the bridge.
The point is that there is a hole, a painful void that my parents ripped out of my life.  It is there and it will always be there.  It cannot be filled.  But I can get around it and over it.  It's there, it exists, but I can live with it, move around it.

Morbidity

Holocaust.  Murder mysteries. Interesting to me now.  The boundless things--atrocities we will do to each other.  Limitless.  Is it regression?  If so, what are the acts of kindness and forgiveness and selflessness and sacrifice we do for others.  What are the ideas we create, philosophies, opinions, rationals that go against our primal instincts?  Progression, evolution?  Evolution of morality?
But of course, we are not the only species which makes these sacrifices and are compassionate to others other than our own offspring.  We've seen dogs and cats risk their lives and safety for humans.  We've seen unusual animal friendships between species.
Pondering this stuff amuses me, but it inspires the question about living in the moment.  Should analyzing things the way I do get in the way of my wish to be in the moment and my practice of being?

Dream

Involved only my mom and me.  Barbecue grill in back yard of my parents house was on fire and going to explode.  My priority was to save the house.  So I sprayed the house with water .  My mother ended up in the end sitting in a pool of melted material.  She was naked and not the age she is now. She was younger.
Whatever sub-conscious and random connections made by my brain, whatever.

how dare ye

disregard me?
shun me?
who the hell are you?
how can you wipe my existence from your life?
you were there when I was born.
you created me.
I am part of you.
how dare you.

well you did.  I must accept it.

a slow good bye

appropriate title.  seems like everyday I come closer to actually accepting.  what will happen when she dies?  she will die without acknowledging me or the things I've been waiting for her to admit.  her death will be hard for me.

Oh, duh.  I keep waiting for my boss to acknowledge my accomplishments just like I used to (and frankly still do) keep waiting for my mom to wake up and realize what a big mistake she's made by rejecting me.
Really that seems a bit less sad and pathetic than the approval thing.  But I know I do want that, too,