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On recovery
Nov. 30th, 2011 02:22 pmIt is a beautiful windy fall day and I live in a town where I can calmly walk down the middle of the road in my long coat and long scarf while the wind snatches my grandfather's hat off my head.
So I listened to my first Lovecraft story yesterday and I have to say it's not for me. I can't take it seriously. I've seen horror, and it's not eldritch and unknowable, it is personal and very human. And you either live in it for the rest of your life or you walk into the world fully aware that nothing else is really that bad.
It is an absolutely beautiful day, and I am wearing a dead man's clothes because his death was not terrible to me. His last year of life was, weak and in pain and unable to take care of his own most basic needs. When he died, I sat by his bed and talked to his body about freedom from pain and weariness and fear. And told him I hoped that was where he had gone.
The wind is cold and the sun is warm and my hands are clean, but I remember days full of stillness, cold, pain and panic when they were covered in my own blood. I remember things that no mother ever wants to imagine. I am thankful that I don't have recurring dreams because once was enough to make each of them haunt me during the day, if I let them.
And there is music, music that tells me my own stories in different words. Nobody is alone, or unique in their sorrows.
And this world is unendingly beautiful.
So I listened to my first Lovecraft story yesterday and I have to say it's not for me. I can't take it seriously. I've seen horror, and it's not eldritch and unknowable, it is personal and very human. And you either live in it for the rest of your life or you walk into the world fully aware that nothing else is really that bad.
It is an absolutely beautiful day, and I am wearing a dead man's clothes because his death was not terrible to me. His last year of life was, weak and in pain and unable to take care of his own most basic needs. When he died, I sat by his bed and talked to his body about freedom from pain and weariness and fear. And told him I hoped that was where he had gone.
The wind is cold and the sun is warm and my hands are clean, but I remember days full of stillness, cold, pain and panic when they were covered in my own blood. I remember things that no mother ever wants to imagine. I am thankful that I don't have recurring dreams because once was enough to make each of them haunt me during the day, if I let them.
And there is music, music that tells me my own stories in different words. Nobody is alone, or unique in their sorrows.
And this world is unendingly beautiful.
