Just when the universe cannot possibly get any more vindictive to best friend...it does. Best friend and mr best friend have two dogs. The agreement was one dog for each when the house sells. Mr best friend's dog was discovered to have a brain tumour last week. Lyla has weeks, maybe months to live. Terrible sadness for both of them. Best friend is really looking forward to living with her dog again now the house is selling. Best friend adores her dog, has gone through hell and high water with that pupster. Only, now it appears Sassy has kidney failure. She's dying. If she lasts the night best friend will have her put down tomorrow.
I'm learning. Slowly. There is nothing to be done with grief. There's no help to give, no words to say. The only thing to do with grief is to sit with it. It can't be hidden; the subject cannot be changed; there's no relief to be found. So. I am sitting with best friend. The ocean and the earth's curvature are not barriers I allow myself to recognise. Her hand, her exquisite hand, is curled in mine. My heart is infinite and it is here to shelter her in her sadness. I can do that and hold small boy tight. (I'm on bath and bed duty tonight.) I've got all evening to send thoughts her way and guard her dreams.
You are right - there is nothing to be done but sit with it. Although, I make it a point to remind the kids that there was a whole pet lifetime of care and love and laughter, for both parties, animal and human. It does not reduce the number of tears by one teardrop, but it does provide a kind of mental balance to this transition all living things eventually make. The Family Crabbcakes has done this kind of thing four times now, so I feel for all of you.
Karmic hugs for the puppy and you and your best friend, badger.
[QUOTE=Crabbcakes;1141642]Karmic hugs for the puppy and you and your best friend, badger.[/QUOTE]
Thank you. She is losing a close friend just at the point when she was looking forward to being reunited with her. It's so cruel the way the timing has panned out. I'm fearful that she will go into a full-scale meltdown, which with us can be pretty dramatic (in different ways, but just as damaging).
So I sit. And I make sure I'm online all the hours I can be. Speaking of - shouldn't you be in bed?
In other news, I sent Frank Turner a thank you email as best friend and I have both found his song 'I am disappeared' cathartic. I don't usually do that sort of thing.
[QUOTE=badgergirl;1141643]So I sit. And I make sure I'm online all the hours I can be. Speaking of - shouldn't you be in bed?
In other news, I sent Frank Turner a thank you email as best friend and I have both found his song 'I am disappeared' cathartic. I don't usually do that sort of thing.[/QUOTE]
It is 6:35 a.m. here as I type this sentence. I just woke up, only to find my iPad sticking me in the back, as I had fallen asleep playing Angry Birds on it and no one noticed the thing with me, so I just logged on to see what was up.
As for thanking artists, I do it whenever it is heartfelt to that degree and I can figure out how to send the note. I figure I would really like it if I were an artist, to get that kind of personal feedback.
Come to think of it, waking up to blue light isn't very Primal, is it?
Grief. If i know something about the animal is that it got to be left out at some point.
Crying, screaming ,cursing, talking. Talking. The soul eroding puritan concept started by the jurk of Martin Luther
has fucked up generations. Keep a grief inside and it will eat you, like a rat in your belly.
I open my email with trepidation, fearing best friend has had a car accident either on the way to or way home from the vet, but no. Only one death.
Frank Turner wrote back thanking me for thanking him. I smile at husband. Just you wait! From little acorns mighty oak trees grow. Husband chuckles: good luck with that! Uh-huh.
I scan the headlines of our favourite newspaper. On the floor at my feet small boy is having an enormous Playmobile knight fight. Meanwhile his parents get great amusement from the story of [URL="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2013/mar/29/concern-pope-francis-feet-washing"]Pope Francis washing women's feet[/URL]. Oh noes! The dirty women! And I am reminded for a moment of all the things we do share and am filled with love. Small boy holds up a knight with three feathers in his cap. Husband laughs, looks at me and says [URL="http://armchairanglophile.wordpress.com/2012/09/04/hunderby-to-kill-a-fiji-bird/"]Bird Raymond[/URL].
Just a normal Saturday morning, then.
Things that interest me
Music (and videos) from other cultures.
I think, when you cannot hear the message, the iconography is far starker. And, instead of mocking or scratching my head, I try to see where (from the dominant world culture - which happens to be American, I would guess) these tropes have come from. When the message is obscured the meaning comes through loud and clear.
And. Eastern European poverty looks a lot like English (as I have experienced it) poverty: sand, sadness, sketchy aping of one's betters...
[video=youtube;ngefT9u2sHs]http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=ngefT9u2sHs[/video] Oasis fashions and Paul Weller hair. out of synch? Yes, of course.
When I was in Greece we were all big fans of 'Pig Sluts', as we called them...and oh dear god the first track sends me straight back there:
[video=youtube;LCnBa5CBl-c]http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&v=LCnBa5CBl-c&NR=1[/video] If you want to know what you're singing along to (the one bit I know? DTipota = nothing):
Still with me?
Here's a bonus track, Polish again, I think.
[QUOTE=Crabbcakes;1141642]You are right - there is nothing to be done but sit with it. [/QUOTE]
I agree with Crabbcakes. I read before than any emotion experienced completely is joy. I totally agree with that. At times when I've actually allowed myself to experience my sorrow, I've realised how much beauty there is in that emotion.
Life is so complex, so haunting, so painful, yet full of beauty...
That's what makes it magical.
Wish me luck on the compliance front![img]http://mbm999.info/17.jpg[/img][img]http://mbm999.info/18.jpg[/img][img]http://mbm999.info/19.jpg[/img][img]http://mbm999.info/20.jpg[/img]
I want to write, but find myself at a loss.
Jam. Shall we talk about Jam? I met him when I was 17 at (where else?) Bogeys. I was a semi-regular at that point - the joys of fake ID. He was 19 and already a reasonably hardened drinker. First reciprocated love Jam. It's so long ago and the memories and reasons have blurred. He was sweet and being with him was joyful. Profoundly dyslexic and cripplingly food phobic (he had a list of about ten things he ate), there was a child-likeness to him - the world was still undiscovered. Whereas I read, even if I hadn't travelled, he operated in a cloud of blissful ignorance, expecting the world to fall in line and be charmed by his comical insouciance. By and large it was.
Things at home weren't so great. A difficult child, I'd matured into a gobby and truculent teen. My parents simply could not keep up with me as I argued them into the ground, slammed the door behind me and disappeared for another night out. One morning, I'd slept at Jam's, I came home to find a policeman sitting on the sofa. My mother sobbed, 'we were pleased when you were coming home at 3am.' I can see her point now. I moved out soon afterwards.
The final year of my A Levels was probably not the best time to be setting up home with an alcoholic, pot-smoking sheet metal worker. Young love, eh? My dad found us some furniture. I bought Willow pattern plates. I went to school and probably studied a little, but it wasn't enough. My grades were not great, but I got into uni despite of them.
I remember that first year together as a wonderful one - happily marinating in body fluids. There was no sense of seriousness or shame to the endeavour - emotions that have appeared since in later relationships. We set about discovering each other and ourselves with all the glee and curiosity of dogs sniffing each other - there was no great emotional investment in the act, although we did love each other. I gave him a finger of fudge (really, someone in the marketing department of Cadbury's should be given a dressing down) the morning after a drunken encounter led me to take an A level (London call girls offer O and A levels - how very old school, I wonder what GCSEs and the International Bac might mean). But none of this - and we talked, watched and learned (I read erotica to him because he couldn't read it himself with any fluency) together - meant anything more than two bodies bumping together in more and more convoluted ways. It didn't touch us, or at least it didn't touch me.
I often wish I could back to that place: my body and the pleasure it brings others a kind of spectator sport. I'm not sure at what point I began to feel connected to my flesh so that sex became an emotive act. I met husband at 24, perhaps he taught me.
Jam and I broke up at the end of the first year of uni. He'd never found his feet in the northern mill town and had spiralled into a deep depression. I couldn't carry him any longer (and perhaps he was tired of the inadequacies of my support act).
Months later, back on the Iggles, I bumped into him in (where else?) Bogeys. He was wearing a badge that proclaimed that the drugs do work and was clearly off his tits. I harangued him for hours (I expect I was drunk myself) on why he'd slept with a lookylikey after our break up and how angry I was about this and that. Eventually a friend of his told me to get lost, not undeserved.
Years later beauty therapist friend bumped into him; surprisingly [I]not [/I]at Bogeys. He recounted to her at some considerable length that I was the best sex he'd ever had, which she then relayed to me looking at me sideways with an odd, calculating look (I do not look like a wild and crazy sex goddess). Perhaps he'd told her about the time we were pulled over by the police for 'speeding' - Jam went and spoke to the officer while I hurriedly got dressed before he came to the car door. I wish I could return the compliment, but to me it was only ever a game of Twister. A challenge to see how the jigsaw could be made to fit together in different ways.
And at no point during those two years did I orgasm. I had no idea what I was missing.
But there are days that I miss him. His sunny, dirty mind and his 19-year-old passionate exuberance. He was such a simple soul.