'Ff'lo (fflo) wrote,

Sunday afternoon

So much to write of and not to write of, and some not sure which.

It's been a good weekend so far. Started out early, with the burying of Paula's ashes &cetera, at a cemetary just over the Broadway bridge. Thinking of it now, with moisture coming to my eyes yet again, I'm remembering most the sense of love and appreciation for good, real, plain, bare, vulnerable human connection that is almost palpable when people who cared for her gather & talk of her and our feelings about her. John is a dear man. Around him I am reminded of, or get at, a kind of truthful dignity of the sad acceptance of pain---or more of its open allowance, its --- why is this so hard to state? I feel bolstered in my own ongoing struggle to feel pain, not to fight it or deny it or hide from it, and to admit it not just in the sense of allowing it in/out or allowing it its course, but importantly in the sense of admitting it externally & to others. Of wearing it, if not on the sleeve, as the expression (oddly) goes, then --- oh wherever wearing it somewhere else would be done.

I think somewhere I have had, as perhaps many of us have from time to time, or even ongoingly, a notion that to be in pain is something to be ashamed of. Or embarrassed by. Or that to show it is weak, and not admirable. Maybe in some way it's ironic that it's around the shared pain of losing stoic Paula that I have gained a sharpness of focus on some kind of thing like dignity in the open experience of pain.

In more mundane matters: the opening of the new Salvation Army Saturday was wild---and D & I weren't even there at the beginning, having hit Value World first. In the evening I sat to write a letter, finally, and I don't know whether it's much of a letter, but I liked sitting with it. Later saw the midnight show of the Ed Murrow movie in a whole row of good people.

Today has been good. I'm futzin' and putzin' fairly free of self-torment. Gettin' stuff done, and gettin' not gettin' stuff done done. Might go pump This American Life into the backyard now & get after some compostables back there. The autumn is gorgeous; the crisp air grand. I'm airing out the house even though I'll have to pay to heat it back up.

In the absorbing news department, I recently came across a new nugget (if you could call it that by any stretch of the imagination) (it's hardly gold in that mine) that I'm so far managing not to air my thoughts about here. What good would it do? I could come up with some potentially legit answers, but the question also stands in the usual rhetorical implication of being answerable only by "none." Of my vascillating reactions, both thinky and feely, in this arena I speak of stealthily (e-mail me if you're curious), the overriding one is still arguably "sad" --- though largely in ways the main party in question would likely never guess. Or couldn't ---but because of personal stance/circumstance, not lack of imagination.

Comfort in dignity, or in integrity, is perhaps a mere consolation, yes, but it isn't sour grapes. No indeed.

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