'I have slid the scenery panels of my life through backstage grooves while I’ve tried to kill myself off with binge smoking and drinking.' I'm left speechless with that line.
Yes, that is the wonder. And maybe both of us are responsible for the conflagration. Understanding what I viewed at this writing as the "betrayal" of his leaving is key to my journey here, I suspect.
You start this chapter desperate for a connection to anyone, anywhere. While I understand Dunne’s line, 'No man is an island,' the sadness of human life is that we are all lone islands seeking a narrow isthmus. With D. you watch destruction, and hope for Grimm clowns. Touched.
Wait, D is from Iowa? Another surprise commonality. Also, your picture of the controlled burn -- that proximity to disaster that isn't actually disaster -- brings back powerful memories of controlled burns that I did with the Forest Service in Montana. This was how we learned the most about fire behavior -- the closest we ever got to big fire. Sometimes the flames were a hundred feet high in the middle of the burn. A blaze like that creates its own weather. And when you are a rookie stationed along the edge with a nozzle, so you can keep the fire from jumping the line, it can feel like your face is melting.
I once watched tree bark ignite 20 feet outside the burn just from radiant heat. Awe-inspiring.
Very moving, Mary, and so very necessary. It seems these days as soon as my face is dry, I weep again and the sadness lingers. Sending virtual hugs. xoxo
'I have slid the scenery panels of my life through backstage grooves while I’ve tried to kill myself off with binge smoking and drinking.' I'm left speechless with that line.
Thank you, Ben, for this kind comment on the memoir and my trials.
“One can create a conflagration in marriage or in betrayal of it.” I wonder, if in your life with D, it wasn’t either or, but both.❤️
Yes, that is the wonder. And maybe both of us are responsible for the conflagration. Understanding what I viewed at this writing as the "betrayal" of his leaving is key to my journey here, I suspect.
This was lovely, Mary. And interesting to find that you are a fan of Updike - I am too.
Too close to the heat - reminds me of Icarus.
Ah, Updike. I miss him so. And yes, "too close to the heat" -- such a reader, you are.
You start this chapter desperate for a connection to anyone, anywhere. While I understand Dunne’s line, 'No man is an island,' the sadness of human life is that we are all lone islands seeking a narrow isthmus. With D. you watch destruction, and hope for Grimm clowns. Touched.
Ah, dear reader, Bill, such a tender comment. You touch me with your thoughtful reads ... ~ Mary
Wait, D is from Iowa? Another surprise commonality. Also, your picture of the controlled burn -- that proximity to disaster that isn't actually disaster -- brings back powerful memories of controlled burns that I did with the Forest Service in Montana. This was how we learned the most about fire behavior -- the closest we ever got to big fire. Sometimes the flames were a hundred feet high in the middle of the burn. A blaze like that creates its own weather. And when you are a rookie stationed along the edge with a nozzle, so you can keep the fire from jumping the line, it can feel like your face is melting.
I once watched tree bark ignite 20 feet outside the burn just from radiant heat. Awe-inspiring.
Yes, the fire was awe-inspiring, as you say. And yep, Iowa. Thank you so for reading and commenting. Means so much ...
Very moving, Mary, and so very necessary. It seems these days as soon as my face is dry, I weep again and the sadness lingers. Sending virtual hugs. xoxo
Ah, Isabelle, such a tender comment and the encouragement that makes all the difference to this writer.
Thanks for this, your own meditations.
Lovely that you read and took the time to comment, David.