The chapter sounds hopeful but mysterious. 'l love you,’ ‘be together,’ and ‘hurt you again.’ Are you keeping score? I wonder. Obsession and focus are not the same.
Well, first of all, only @Mary L. Tabor will conceive to write about the pain of loving an undemonstrative, uncommunicative man in analogy to the frustration of interviewing Albert Pujols after a game. And pull it off because she makes it make sense. Because it does. Because Mary sees that it does when we do not, until she shows us. D. begins to seem to me, especially after that letter, like a woman I once knew, who had a diagnosis I won't name, who also ultimately coughed out words like pulled teeth that she could never bite with, because there was no there there. Not that D. speaks but won't deliver but that he has nothing to deliver. That's how it feels anyway, a fulfillment of what I felt last week, and now I wait -- How long, O Lord -- for the way out and up.
Emotionally, I'm right there with Eleanor, furiously shouting at D. from the dugout to get the hell out of there (here?).
Linguistically, I got caught up in your Lear quote. "The rain it raineth every day". The near tautology of hat made me wonder what the opposite of tautology is and my friendly AI bot says, " The antonym of "tautology" is "contradiction." While a tautology is a statement that is always true, a contradiction is a statement that is always false." That last phrase struck me as somehow apt to D. Forgive me for saying so, but I feel there is always something false about what he says.
Finally, I recalled that Shakespeare also used the line about the rain in Feste's song in Twelfth Night. Which made me wonder: Is this to be a comedy or a tragedy? In either case, the rain it raineth every day. And the writing is beautiful too.
I did not expect a baseball metaphor, but you've captured the heart of it for a batter anyway. Fielders can aspire to something much closer to perfection. But the discipline and timing required to excel at the plate, and then to fail the majority of the time, even sometimes when you did hit it hard, is indeed a maddening paradox. In fact, to extend your metaphor, I don't think mastery of hitting is possible, not at the highest levels. And the most glorious moments are fleeting -- over almost immediately -- which one might also say of lovemaking.
My own baseball memories are indelibly intertwined with memories of my father, and so your metaphor resonates for me in a different way. Success at the plate meant his approval. But because he gave approval rarely, and then only begrudgingly, it required something close to perfection. I recall a game during a state tournament when I was perfect at the plate -- 4 for 4. The first three times I hit home runs. The last time I doubled off the fence. And my father said, "What happened that time?"
You also capture for me the ambiguity of marriage -- how one knows when trying harder only means more misery, what is required to say that a relationship is not just middling in the way that all relationships sometimes are, but is actually irretrievably broken. I know the answer for myself. But as I've read your narrative, I think the challenge for you is that you didn't want it to be over, you were unwilling to imagine the end, you were not emotionally at the end. And so there was still reason to walk back up to the plate?
The chapter sounds hopeful but mysterious. 'l love you,’ ‘be together,’ and ‘hurt you again.’ Are you keeping score? I wonder. Obsession and focus are not the same.
Not keeping score--never a good idea in a relationship, even one that has fallen apart.
Shakespeare, baseball, pots and pans hung up and then taken down. A stunning love letter, too late.
Thank you so for reading. What a letter! So, confusing ...
Well, first of all, only @Mary L. Tabor will conceive to write about the pain of loving an undemonstrative, uncommunicative man in analogy to the frustration of interviewing Albert Pujols after a game. And pull it off because she makes it make sense. Because it does. Because Mary sees that it does when we do not, until she shows us. D. begins to seem to me, especially after that letter, like a woman I once knew, who had a diagnosis I won't name, who also ultimately coughed out words like pulled teeth that she could never bite with, because there was no there there. Not that D. speaks but won't deliver but that he has nothing to deliver. That's how it feels anyway, a fulfillment of what I felt last week, and now I wait -- How long, O Lord -- for the way out and up.
The way out and up, key, Jay. Thank you for reading and commenting.
Emotionally, I'm right there with Eleanor, furiously shouting at D. from the dugout to get the hell out of there (here?).
Linguistically, I got caught up in your Lear quote. "The rain it raineth every day". The near tautology of hat made me wonder what the opposite of tautology is and my friendly AI bot says, " The antonym of "tautology" is "contradiction." While a tautology is a statement that is always true, a contradiction is a statement that is always false." That last phrase struck me as somehow apt to D. Forgive me for saying so, but I feel there is always something false about what he says.
Finally, I recalled that Shakespeare also used the line about the rain in Feste's song in Twelfth Night. Which made me wonder: Is this to be a comedy or a tragedy? In either case, the rain it raineth every day. And the writing is beautiful too.
Gorgeous, intellectual comment! Sorry for the late reply, Jeffrey.
Oh Mary. I want to shout at that man. I'm so furious. On your behalf, and on behalf of all women. xx
You're such a friend, Eleanor!
Honestly, Mary, it drives me mad. Sending love xx
Tough true story ... xo
It's a pleasure to revisit your work, Mary. Looking forward to upcoming chapters. This was a particularly great one.
Oh so glad to see you here, Ollie. Thank you!
Again, I love the connections made here. There's a lot of communication going on even if it's not through conversation. Beautiful.
How insightful! Thank you, Isabelle.
I did not expect a baseball metaphor, but you've captured the heart of it for a batter anyway. Fielders can aspire to something much closer to perfection. But the discipline and timing required to excel at the plate, and then to fail the majority of the time, even sometimes when you did hit it hard, is indeed a maddening paradox. In fact, to extend your metaphor, I don't think mastery of hitting is possible, not at the highest levels. And the most glorious moments are fleeting -- over almost immediately -- which one might also say of lovemaking.
My own baseball memories are indelibly intertwined with memories of my father, and so your metaphor resonates for me in a different way. Success at the plate meant his approval. But because he gave approval rarely, and then only begrudgingly, it required something close to perfection. I recall a game during a state tournament when I was perfect at the plate -- 4 for 4. The first three times I hit home runs. The last time I doubled off the fence. And my father said, "What happened that time?"
You also capture for me the ambiguity of marriage -- how one knows when trying harder only means more misery, what is required to say that a relationship is not just middling in the way that all relationships sometimes are, but is actually irretrievably broken. I know the answer for myself. But as I've read your narrative, I think the challenge for you is that you didn't want it to be over, you were unwilling to imagine the end, you were not emotionally at the end. And so there was still reason to walk back up to the plate?
What grand and moving and eloquently stated thoughts,Josh.
Waiting eagerly for the next chapter with hope in my heart and skepticism in my mind.
Me too, David.
Best one.
Thank you, Adam.
Thank you, Ollie/