One of your most beautiful posts, Mary, and amazing for what it triggers—in a meaningful, positive way—in me. That last line is Wow! In rewriting, revisiting our past, I wonder what discoveries we make or what was once blurry is now so, so clear. How time and space works.
I could write an essay in itself about the responses I felt this week reading. Having read over a span of 30 installments so far, I have an internalized feeling of how long Mary has been living through all of this Though I don't actually have a clear sense of that, emotional time is its own dimension. Shall I admit I feel frustrated annoyance with the Garbo-esque D.? I admit it. Does he refuse to admit a process of disaffection when he says it isn't Mary but him? Does it feel like he's torturing her by remaining in her life and in some ways close but not truly intimate? That he's being unfair to her? And Mary's loneliness, parents and sister gone, and now husband slipped away, without their comfort to seek. And Mary dreaming and trying to make sense of it all. And my knowing sometimes there is no sense to be had but the sense we do literally *make* of something in order to put it in its place, somewhere, and move on. I'll stop.. I can't go on. I'll go on. Next week.
“ How do I deal with all the leavings?…..I wait for the sea.”
What do you call what comes after invention?
I honestly don’t know why your memoir isn’t a NYT bestseller other than marketing. It’s visceral as real life and we should find the actress to play you!
“I recall D.’s heart, his being like the drift of the Caribbean sea over the sand, the strand of light that reaches through the clarity of that sea. His touch and his kiss that once expressed his clarity that took me in its sight and held me so that I let go, floated in its buoyant assurance.” This description of D encompasses so much, I feel the depth of your love and the raw, tearing away from it in his absence. Oh the ache Mary.
Beautiful. This chapter seems to be channelling another voice somehow, wistful, sober, alert. Lovely writing.
One of your most beautiful posts, Mary, and amazing for what it triggers—in a meaningful, positive way—in me. That last line is Wow! In rewriting, revisiting our past, I wonder what discoveries we make or what was once blurry is now so, so clear. How time and space works.
I could write an essay in itself about the responses I felt this week reading. Having read over a span of 30 installments so far, I have an internalized feeling of how long Mary has been living through all of this Though I don't actually have a clear sense of that, emotional time is its own dimension. Shall I admit I feel frustrated annoyance with the Garbo-esque D.? I admit it. Does he refuse to admit a process of disaffection when he says it isn't Mary but him? Does it feel like he's torturing her by remaining in her life and in some ways close but not truly intimate? That he's being unfair to her? And Mary's loneliness, parents and sister gone, and now husband slipped away, without their comfort to seek. And Mary dreaming and trying to make sense of it all. And my knowing sometimes there is no sense to be had but the sense we do literally *make* of something in order to put it in its place, somewhere, and move on. I'll stop.. I can't go on. I'll go on. Next week.
“ How do I deal with all the leavings?…..I wait for the sea.”
What do you call what comes after invention?
I honestly don’t know why your memoir isn’t a NYT bestseller other than marketing. It’s visceral as real life and we should find the actress to play you!
A chapter that captures your tortured waiting while D. stays in control, only waving back.
“I recall D.’s heart, his being like the drift of the Caribbean sea over the sand, the strand of light that reaches through the clarity of that sea. His touch and his kiss that once expressed his clarity that took me in its sight and held me so that I let go, floated in its buoyant assurance.” This description of D encompasses so much, I feel the depth of your love and the raw, tearing away from it in his absence. Oh the ache Mary.