i wanted to say more about mother. then i took 137 pictures. the light was soft and showing the shape of things and the colors sort of humming in form and birds weaving through branches, vines and blossoms. then the sun came out and i got weary and bleary, and this ties in with mother too, cause when i'm tired and hungry i get a little sad and needy, and feel like a child who never grew, or grew inward, but not into the world, like i dreamed but failed to individuate, or something. like a child that's a man in form, orphaned by age. oh what is it i wanted to say. 
what i said before is true, but there's more. there's ambivalence. and mother. i wrote in my phone, mothers are mothers of ambivalence too. by chance i noticed the movie kaleidoscope and we watched last night, and it's about an old boy and mother, and the actor reminds me of jimmy corrigan, smartest kid on earth, and he's so sad, and his psyche is fractured like a kaleidoscope and he lives in a giant complex that looks like a kaleidoscope and he seems like he doesn't know what's real and struggles all the time to figure out who he is and who are the others. and i think he had a bad mothering, he did not individuate, he's lost and he's angry and confused and sad. 
and this morning i read about coming to terms with mother in the contemplation of entering motherhood, by sheila heti, which is one way i'll never come to understand motherhood, and i'm skeptical of it even for girls, and it sounds like heti wasn't quite in control of her material either, setting out to lay the ghosts of childhood but losing her way:


Her journey is marred by her insecurities and ambivalence, particularly in regard to those closest to her. So instead of the promised chronicle of self-discovery, we witness Heti’s troubled history and ongoing dysfunction. Heti wants her journey inward to be fearless and authentic, but she is often unable to shut out the voices that surround her. Ironically, it is precisely this anxiety that holds the reader in thrall because we recognize in Heti’s tentativeness so much of our own. She shows us how we often lie and deceive ourselves. How frequently we retreat. How regularly we retell ourselves false “truths” in a vain attempt at finding comfort. We can’t always see the forces that thwart us no matter how much we want to. So we pretend, or make do, or become increasingly sad. This wired tension pulses on every page. 

i've thought about inherited ambivalence. maybe about a mother who struggled with individuation and a kid struggling with individuation with such a mother, and feeling the desperation of that need with the mother's experience, of the kid feeling rather the responsibility for mother's individuation, which is a breathless futility, and probably results in exasperation and separation and the craven vacuum taking the place where individuation failed.

see, i'm bleary, but something has to be recorded before clarity that may never come. i started out by saying after waking this morning how i feel like letting go. and it did happen, but after that comes letting go, and ambivalence seeping, and fatigue, and more letting go. 
that matters are not quite within our control. that we didn't choose and maybe were not quite chosen, within ambivalence, that we didn't choose, but we are.