Seeing through a scrim indeed, but you, with time, are unscrewing that lens. And through your own masterful inquiry, get to finally fly on a clear blue day. I do hope this feels true, because it’s what I hear and see and feel as I read you.
A scrim may not be equally transparent in both directions. If one side is bright, the light reflecting from the scrim cotton threads exceeds the light from gaps between threads, so you can’t see through the scrim. When looking from the darker side, the light coming through thread gaps is sufficient to see through clearly. Your side is bright, his remains dark. He sees you. You can’t see him. Hope you get rid of the scrim.
Haunting, Mary. We see through a scrim, indeed. No way to apprehend the past but through who we are now, whatever vantage the present has brought to us.
Also, as an aside, I know of few more painful experiences than watching a film that depicts intimacy with someone who is no longer intimate with you, or with whom intimacy is slipping away. Simply awful to see the thing you desire on the screen, to have someone nearby, to know they are in fact far away.
"I know of few more painful experiences than watching a film that depicts intimacy with someone who is no longer intimate with you, or with whom intimacy is slipping away. Simply awful to see the thing you desire on the screen, to have someone nearby, to know they are in fact far away."
That is so true, Josh, as an experience in itself, and on the mark here, in capturing so much of the pain and pathos: Mary reaching out to recapture intimacy, D. drawing away remotely. It hurts to read.
Seeing through a scrim indeed, but you, with time, are unscrewing that lens. And through your own masterful inquiry, get to finally fly on a clear blue day. I do hope this feels true, because it’s what I hear and see and feel as I read you.
Yes, feels true, despite all ... but how to know? Can we ever be sure?
Wonderful. I love the way light, flight and silence ricochet through the chapter. Dazzling. Happy New Year!
What a lovely comment. Made my day, Jeffrey, fab reader that you are. 🥂A toast to you as writer and reader. All my best and thrive! ~ Mary
A toast to you too, Mary!
A scrim may not be equally transparent in both directions. If one side is bright, the light reflecting from the scrim cotton threads exceeds the light from gaps between threads, so you can’t see through the scrim. When looking from the darker side, the light coming through thread gaps is sufficient to see through clearly. Your side is bright, his remains dark. He sees you. You can’t see him. Hope you get rid of the scrim.
Trying to do exactly that.
Amazing, particularly, the paragraph where sky and water merge. Thought-provoking.
Wishing you and yours, dear Mary, a happy 2024 and thank you for delivering these wonderful posts throughout 2023 xo
Lovely specific comment, so much appreciated, Isabelle. Wishing you as well Happy New Year.
Haunting, Mary. We see through a scrim, indeed. No way to apprehend the past but through who we are now, whatever vantage the present has brought to us.
Also, as an aside, I know of few more painful experiences than watching a film that depicts intimacy with someone who is no longer intimate with you, or with whom intimacy is slipping away. Simply awful to see the thing you desire on the screen, to have someone nearby, to know they are in fact far away.
"I know of few more painful experiences than watching a film that depicts intimacy with someone who is no longer intimate with you, or with whom intimacy is slipping away. Simply awful to see the thing you desire on the screen, to have someone nearby, to know they are in fact far away."
That is so true, Josh, as an experience in itself, and on the mark here, in capturing so much of the pain and pathos: Mary reaching out to recapture intimacy, D. drawing away remotely. It hurts to read.
It hurts to write ... Thank you, Jay ...
An eloquent expression, Josh, of what I experienced. Heartfelt thanks for reading and commenting with such compassion and appreciation.