Emotional Abandonment Clearly Recalled
In Memory of Child, Now Adult Survivor
Dear Spider:
Doggedly determined to raise a fitting family, socially conscious parents beget an unfulfilled adult child who suffers the forgotten baggage of child emotional oppression while finding that death harbingers every step he takes into his future.
A Psychological Novel
By Zolen Caló
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MEMORY WORK
Readers Find: MEMORY WORK Readers Find:
Child Abuse Outrages
This fiction hammers home the outrage of child abuse with its ruinous consequences, much of it disguised behind the well meaning efforts of staid and sober families.

Child Abuse Survivor To Maddened Adult
Infidelity, cheap piety, aggression scar the pages upon which a maddened adult child abuse survivor manages a codependent, workaholic, acoa, alienated life of self hate.

Self Actualization a Key Character Foil
Self actualization seems at hand for Caló heroes and heroines until they are foiled, flung to ladder's bottom rung to awaken among the vindictive and must consider their quest again.

Jung Psychology Brings Metaphysical Book to Life
Carl Jung's spirit drives this novel where dreams and fears of oneness press his literary archetypes toward personal transformation, self awareness or personal change.
Phipp Kearney is a college professor who should have been a criminal. He, who grew up in a torture chamber hidden behind a middle class front door, suffers with a ruinous personality. His life is a waiting room for his childhood to sneak into the present and destroy him. The loss of his wife and his university position loom before him. Yet he neither understands why these losses are imminent nor recognizes the troubles that precipitated them. In a bitter-end effort, his wife lures him into a therapy called Memory Work. He accedes, and begrudgingly begins to write. In a cabin upon the Coosa River, with neighbors out of the book of the too familiar, he finds that past and present merge into a lethal profile of himselfa womanizer, a lounge lover with an alcoholic personality tending toward alcoholism, desperately seeking codependencies to support his cloistered academic world. Still, with a sense of stoicism and raillery, he shares with the reader his memories of being stripped of ego, self-esteem, spontaneity, creativity, and the ability to love, along the road toward his disconnectedness and fears of oneness as an adult. Infidelity, self righteousness, suicide, and the masks of cruelty and abuse, scar the landscape over which Phipp follows a trail of synchronicity in his search to unravel his past, a twelve year old boy and a timid old man his most potent therapists. Emotional Abandonment
To feel alienation, disconnection, abandonment even when surrounded by family and the familiar - common emotions that lead to a mad chase for self acceptance.

Alcoholism Possible, Codependency Sure In Novel's Turbulence
Phipp Kearney's dive toward alcoholism is distilled from a complex of codependency, adult child of alcoholic patterns, addictive behavior and a determined spouse with an alanon attitude.

Evolution of the Alcoholic Found In Personal Loss
Phipp Kearney is becoming an alcoholic as he copes with child abuse, emotional abandonment, his infidelity and loss of self awareness.

Zolen Caló "Issues"
No love or lost love, love and lust confused, marriage spoiled breeding marital infidelity via adultery and alienation, and leading to grief and loss: Caló assaults these complex issues with an intent to bring them down to Planet Earth for the benefit of the everyday reader. These are reads that may find a place in English literature.

Spiritual Growth
Versus
Impending Doom

Spiritual growth lingers as a sub-theme in Memory Work as Zolen Caló sends readers where no spiritual-healing self help book might:  Into the heart of another's personal hell.

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  Sample Passage  
 

Old Dockside Mall · Rome, Georgia

     "I thought palm readers predicted how long a person would live," Phipp said as he paid the fortune teller. "You only told me how old I am. Hell, who needs a palm reader to know he's in his thirties?
     The palm reader frowned. "I said, sir, that you are age thirty-seven or thirty-eight, although you look much younger."
     "So? Does that mean I should live a long time?"
     "Sir . . . "
     "Is there a reason you can’t tell me?"
     "Well, sir . . . "
     "You know something, don’t you?"
     The palm reader sighed.
     "The palms don’t tell me everything in detail, sir."
     "I don't care. I just want my money's worth of this hocus pocus. So, tell me. How long am I supposed to live?"
     With a rounding and hardening of eye by which she demonstrated her loss of patience, the palm reader grabbed Phipp's hand, flipped his palm up, and cocked it toward her. She peered into it again, then pointed.
     "See this line, sir?"
     "Yes."
     "That’s your life line."
     "Okay. So, what’s my life span?"
     The woman swallowed. She raised her eyes to his. She spoke softly.
     "Sir . . . "
     "Yes?"
     "You will die this year."
     Phipp jerked his hand away. The table shook. The palm reader caught it. Her client sprang to his feet.
     "Thank you," he answered tautly.
     He spun from the booth and hurried along the corridor of the river mall. He dodged passers-by and browsers, tables and booths as he rushed for the edge of the psychic fair. When he reached the perimeter, he slowed his pace. He took a breath. His eyes locked upon the flashing neon sign of a bar.
     "Son?" someone said.
     Phipp turned toward the voice. The woman with the two sweaters and the green hair stood before a shrouded booth. She motioned for him to join her at a table inside. He thought not to do so, but people grabbed him and threw him into the chair. He looked for his assailants, but they were not there.
     "What do you want?" he asked as the woman closed the drape behind him.
     "Me?"
     She smiled at him as she straightened her greenish mane and dropped into her chair.
     "Only you and I sit here," Phipp said caustically.
     "Oh, I don’t know about that. Quite a lot of people roam in and out of my space."
     "I don’t want to hear any more psychedelic double-talk," Phipp replied angrily.
     The lady said nothing. She raised her hand and scratched her scalp. She returned the hand to her lap and looked at him as if he were a fool.
     "What?" Phipp asked.
     "I wanted to tell you earlier—"
     "Tell me what?"
     "I rarely see lavender."
     "Lavender?"
     "Yes. The color lavender. In an aura. And in a spike at that. Whew! What grace. What powerful grace. And what God-sent knowledge saves you."
     "Huh?"
     "Son, you’re all red—all energy and activity. But also anger, rage, percolating hate."
     "I've already heard that from a number of places, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are."
     "And then there’s your spike. It's there, wedged into the most sensitive area of your being—through all that red; squeezed in and absolutely impenetrable." The woman cackled. "That’s your angel, son. Your grace. In the lavender. And what you can become spreads out from him or her into violet, which the red then pinches tight. Oh! How you teeter on a thread between loss and redemption."
     "With all respect, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are, you and all these other people here are screwed up. One of your species just told me I’ll die this year."
     "She did?"
     "Yes,
she did."
     "Here," the woman said and motioned for Phipp’s hand. She took it and held it. "Hmm. Yes. Very likely you’ll die this year."
     Phipp gave a cry and fell back into his chair. He broke into nervous laughter. His laughter sounded more like a wail.
     "But that’s good. That’s good. It’s time you died," the medium said.
     Phipp returned his attention to her, his face as white as his teeth.
     "You say it’s good that I die?"
     "Oh, my son, you’ve already died. You’re so long dead that your soul rots even as we speak. And you came here so alive, with that lavender originally opened, I do believe, so that it filled over half your crown; and, too, with your violet shooting out, spreading everywhere, gobbling up learning like a sponge." She chuckled. "You always did want to be smart, didn’t you, young doctor?"
     "Well . . . yes."
     "And so did you become, I see. You gained smartness but you gave up understanding, didn’t you?"
     "There’s not any."
     "Not from whence you came. Not in who you are."
     "So, being the ignorant bastard that I am . . . "
     "Said by your own tongue, I hear. And, possibly, well."
     "How will I die?"
     The woman’s face sobered. "I think you’ll drown," she replied thoughtfully, "You could drown in the quiet waters of a river, like the Coosa outside our little mall here. Or you could drown in your bathtub after a drunken spill there. Or you could drown by the tightness of a rope you put around your own neck. All those opportunities open to you." She stopped. She eyed him certainly. "Or you could die the slowest and most horrible of deaths that mortals know."
     "What? Dismemberment?"
     "No, young doctor. I speak of the death that self awareness brings. The death that ego dreads most: to recognize itself for what it is. Oh, how horrible! How vulnerable do we become when we dare to die so that we might live again."
     "You sound like an Evangelical. So, what’s next? You break into an unknown tongue?"
     "I’m non-denominational," the woman said with a smile, "God doesn’t beat me with a tongue I can’t understand. Nor does he guide me by forces which exclude me from acceptance of any human soul—not even yours—one of the most contorted that I think I’ve ever sensed."
     "I need a beer," Phipp whispered.
     "I know. Go get drunk. I’d go with you but my health is already bad. Just remember: you can drown that way, too, without a need to slip in your bathtub."
     Phipp stood. He counted from his wallet the same fee he had paid the palm reader. She stopped him.
     "There is no fee for those who are led here, young doctor. And do not insist."
     Phipp returned the wallet to his pocket and pulled back the curtain to leave, but paused.
     "Did I tell you that I am a doctor, Mrs. Whoever-You-Are?"
     "Me? Yes, a number times in a number of ways."
     "My ego is that big?"
     "The pain that your ego protects is that big. So go. Write well. Don’t seek peace in it. Die nobly."
     "Jeese!"
     Phipp fled to the lounge. He paid for eight beers when he left mid-afternoon.

 
     
Literary
Works of
The
Author
The Quixote Imbroglio
Just Another Georgia Romance
Fingers Through The Sand
Ali Zán And True Love
Memory Work
Nearly Diamond
He, Recalled
Earth, Dirt, And Dust
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