Well, this morning I read Black Hockey Jesus' post where he talks to a reader's dead friend. It's pretty much some thoughts on death.
I finally cracked and wrote a post about the fact that people saying 'for fuck sake' instead of 'for fuck's sake' annoys me, which many no doubt consider nutsers.
I have Twenty's affliction of writing down a word that rhymes with the one I actually want. Then I stare at it for a bit, wondering what I meant to say, and what's not right, and what the right word is.
This evening I was stressed to fuck making dinner, panic attack stressed, in my head. I know I inherited dinner balancing desperation from my mother but there really was no call. It was that feeling of being strung out, saying to yourself, 'why are you feeling like this, everything's fine, mlaaaaa!!' Also my daughter talked at 5 year old volume all through dinner, and afterwards when I had retreated in a desperate desire to be on my own she ran around with her brother screaming and shouting, and my ears rang and I felt like I was being pounded in the heeed with an aural bat, yes I did.
And then I read her Babe, chapter 2: '...I meant, what's your name?'
'I don't know', said the piglet.
'Well, what did your mother call you, to tell you apart from your brothers and sisters?' said Fly and then wished she hadn't, for at the mention of his family the pig began to look distinctly unhappy. His little forehead wrinkled and he gulped and his voice trembled as he answered.
'She called us all the same'.
'And what was that, dear?'
'Babe,' said the piglet.
'But that's a lovely name,' she said. 'Would you like us to call you that? It'll make you feel more at home.'
At this last word the pig's face fell even further.
'I want my mum', he said very quietly.
And then I read metrodad's post on losing his friend in the Twin Towers.
Then I read a comment on said BHJ's post about how we should let the dead go, they don't want to be bothered and that's our job, so I had to respond by saying no, we should let the grief and any memory of trauma go, while keeping the people alive in our hearts, and their love for us in us and who we are, hypocritically sniffling the while.
Then I had a little cry.
3 comments:
Hey Jo, Don’t think its premenstrual, ness or otherwise. Sometimes we just don’t cut ourselves enough slack. A pal told me yesterday that John O’Donoghue RIP, said if parents knew what parenting was about, they would never take on the gig. (or words to that effect).
I like what you say about the dead and gone; yeah I’m there on that. For me they leave a space forever empty, in a good memory way.
And lill cries are not the monopoly of stylistic feminist caring broads; I ball my head off at the drop of an engaging word on talk radio or on blog.
You’re spot on here girl.
Well, I don't disagree as such, but it's not quite that - you have to understand the things that make me cry at certain hormonal times - Neighbours, that Kodak ad where the young couple go to take a photo in the same place their grandparents did, or whatever. It goes beyond the normal parameters of what would make me cry, it's a strange feeling.
I suspect you may be over-endowed with whatever hormone it is yourself!
Could you mail me at the blog address, sniffle? infantasiablog AT gail DOT com
Hey Jo, you get my email?
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