This is a great chapter that needs to be read more than once. Kitchens and the home once again make an appearance... on this second re-reading of your memoir, it feels to me more about your home - or the archetype of the home - than about D. Homes in the past with your family, homes that were lost, kitchen utensils perfect for hitting D's head, a desolate temporary home in Missouri (where I noticed this time around that the most important items you brought were your books). D. opened the door for all these thoughts, reflections and memories to come through, and all these interesting encounters (I also want to know if the bartender wrote a book!) but it really doesn't feel to me now like a story about you and him. It's about so much more.
And your dream scene with your father’s fingers…I want to see this scene play out in a Lars Von Trier film—not as horror, but the harrowing experience of tenderness lost.
You pull me in deeper with every chapter, Mary. In this post I've loved getting to know so many people through your encounter with the bartender - not just him but you, your husband and your father. You're weaving your words with the important threads of so many people and experiences. Wonderful!
This installment carries a greater weight of sadness with it, I think, than earlier installments. It hurts. If readers want to experience a writer vulnerably traveling through the pain of her loss to reach her destination, this is a series to read. What is the destination? I don't see it yet. Do you know it, Mary? Are you there? If so, how well you withhold it. (Shh. Don't tell.)
This is a great chapter that needs to be read more than once. Kitchens and the home once again make an appearance... on this second re-reading of your memoir, it feels to me more about your home - or the archetype of the home - than about D. Homes in the past with your family, homes that were lost, kitchen utensils perfect for hitting D's head, a desolate temporary home in Missouri (where I noticed this time around that the most important items you brought were your books). D. opened the door for all these thoughts, reflections and memories to come through, and all these interesting encounters (I also want to know if the bartender wrote a book!) but it really doesn't feel to me now like a story about you and him. It's about so much more.
And your dream scene with your father’s fingers…I want to see this scene play out in a Lars Von Trier film—not as horror, but the harrowing experience of tenderness lost.
“ I live in the shame of the betrayal that sets me free: I write it.” THIS!!!!!
Your husband "didn't watch you undress." That was a big line for me. My fantasy is to watch each other. Good call on the bartender.
You pull me in deeper with every chapter, Mary. In this post I've loved getting to know so many people through your encounter with the bartender - not just him but you, your husband and your father. You're weaving your words with the important threads of so many people and experiences. Wonderful!
This installment carries a greater weight of sadness with it, I think, than earlier installments. It hurts. If readers want to experience a writer vulnerably traveling through the pain of her loss to reach her destination, this is a series to read. What is the destination? I don't see it yet. Do you know it, Mary? Are you there? If so, how well you withhold it. (Shh. Don't tell.)
I wonder if the bartender has a book now?
This post digs deep. We're all broken in need of healing. I'm thinking of betrayal but also how we deal with a brutal childhood later on ...
Thanks for sharing Mary in such a beautiful way. You reveal your trust in the reader and it's wonderful to revisit Gioia.