you can't fix it, you gotta stand it
I saw Brokeback Mountain tonight, finally. I knew the basics of the plot, but not the exact ending, although it has tragedy written all over it so I knew I was in for it. It's a nearly flawless retelling of the fact that we're all marked by lack and loss. Because that's how it is.
Tonight when the insomnia hit, I was flipping through other blogs, and found an entry about someone losing their cat. I had to put my dog Ivan to sleep about a year ago. It was in late June, I forced myself not to pay attention to the date so I wouldn't remember it, or worse, wouldn't remember to remember it until too late, and then feel terrible. This way I don't feel terrible. I remember what I want when I want. This is much better.
For 10 months, I couldn't think of Ivan without crying. The first few weeks were awful - I was miserable and nobody understood or knew what to do. I knew I was feeling "normal," and should talk about it when I felt like it. But people looked distinctly uncomfortable when I talked about it, so I stopped. That's the thing about grief. People want you, in fact they need you to be over with it long before you really are. But it got better with time, like it usually does.
Matt's friend Aaron died suddenly in October, and I watched Matt wrestle down that same problem; reconciling himself to the fact that the story is told. There was actually the potential to say much more, but no. It's ended. Even though it wasn't anybody's idea of an ending. It was a dissonant chord, an off note, something unsettling that takes a long time to quiet down in you. But it has. The quieting trick is actually doing the wrestling with that ending, whatever it is. Do it however you like, but take that motherfucker on.
So why am I up late, thinking and writing about the dead, grief, and loss (and not crying)? Because that's how it is.
Still. No sense in dwelling. Tomorrow we're taking the horses to the Russian River and I'll watch a romance.
Tonight when the insomnia hit, I was flipping through other blogs, and found an entry about someone losing their cat. I had to put my dog Ivan to sleep about a year ago. It was in late June, I forced myself not to pay attention to the date so I wouldn't remember it, or worse, wouldn't remember to remember it until too late, and then feel terrible. This way I don't feel terrible. I remember what I want when I want. This is much better.
For 10 months, I couldn't think of Ivan without crying. The first few weeks were awful - I was miserable and nobody understood or knew what to do. I knew I was feeling "normal," and should talk about it when I felt like it. But people looked distinctly uncomfortable when I talked about it, so I stopped. That's the thing about grief. People want you, in fact they need you to be over with it long before you really are. But it got better with time, like it usually does.
Matt's friend Aaron died suddenly in October, and I watched Matt wrestle down that same problem; reconciling himself to the fact that the story is told. There was actually the potential to say much more, but no. It's ended. Even though it wasn't anybody's idea of an ending. It was a dissonant chord, an off note, something unsettling that takes a long time to quiet down in you. But it has. The quieting trick is actually doing the wrestling with that ending, whatever it is. Do it however you like, but take that motherfucker on.
So why am I up late, thinking and writing about the dead, grief, and loss (and not crying)? Because that's how it is.
Still. No sense in dwelling. Tomorrow we're taking the horses to the Russian River and I'll watch a romance.
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