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Jan. 16th, 2007 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormI want to write about the feelings here, but I can't because feelings are the one thing that never come clearly. You know, when I ran away to Abbotsford for the night there was a certain quality to the curve of Trevor's arm around me that you never get anywhere else, just like stroking Sprite's nose and stroking Helen's nose are totally different acts, and how Paris is my favourite rat because of the way he moves in a snuggle against me when I hold him, or even when he's just in the cage and I come into the room. I couldn't even begin to describe the difference between the warm flesh of a shoulder, Bob or Juggler, the way repetitions upon repetitions from those nights of sleeping have etched some sort of meaning onto what is, in the end, still just fragrant warm meat-- and how do you describe the difference there, the feeling of it? Somehow I know that each night doesn't come again, it never repeats, and yet there is a similarity in something like that that leads to comfort and soothing that only come with some sort of security.
Now we've had days on sunshine, and the rain has come, and I know the summer will turn and the sun will come again. The earth is a security that has never been taken from me, that never can be. That's the gardener in me. I only ever speak in metaphor when I'm trying to say something very specific because I find the fine details are so huge, such an enormous part of life that the whole world comesa down in them. This is what they call holograms? Within each tiny piece the whole is encapsulated.
I only write like this when I lose myself in life, when it overwhelms me. Right now I'm beat down, sometimes I'm swept up, but it amounts to the same thing, to being so much smaller than the huge tide of it that... well. That I can't see myself, a grain of sand, to use that so-overused metaphor.
During childhood I learned to dissociate at the drop of a hat, the turn of a mouth, the slightest gesture or word when something bad was coming. It means I've lost out on a lot of my life, leaving myself somewhere safe to watch myself puppetting around. I'm getting my life back now, and I'm learning too that sadness shouldn't be talked over, talked around, polished smooth-- it should just be felt, and then life goes on. Still, grief requires a period of adjustment, a numbness where the inside is carefully setting things up so that when everything sags, nothing falls over.
Goodnight. I'm off to life for awhile
Now we've had days on sunshine, and the rain has come, and I know the summer will turn and the sun will come again. The earth is a security that has never been taken from me, that never can be. That's the gardener in me. I only ever speak in metaphor when I'm trying to say something very specific because I find the fine details are so huge, such an enormous part of life that the whole world comesa down in them. This is what they call holograms? Within each tiny piece the whole is encapsulated.
I only write like this when I lose myself in life, when it overwhelms me. Right now I'm beat down, sometimes I'm swept up, but it amounts to the same thing, to being so much smaller than the huge tide of it that... well. That I can't see myself, a grain of sand, to use that so-overused metaphor.
During childhood I learned to dissociate at the drop of a hat, the turn of a mouth, the slightest gesture or word when something bad was coming. It means I've lost out on a lot of my life, leaving myself somewhere safe to watch myself puppetting around. I'm getting my life back now, and I'm learning too that sadness shouldn't be talked over, talked around, polished smooth-- it should just be felt, and then life goes on. Still, grief requires a period of adjustment, a numbness where the inside is carefully setting things up so that when everything sags, nothing falls over.
Goodnight. I'm off to life for awhile
