A Perfect Storm (or, when the Kitsch hits the fan...)
The only thing better than finding out that Thomas Kinkade, "painter of light," is painting a portrait of Graceland
(home of "The King") would be finding out that he is, in fact, painting it on velvet. Okay, call me a snob.
I've been to Graceland, and as much as I love Elvis (ooh, those jumpsuits that increase in gaudiness correspondent to their girth), I can only say that stylistically, no contemporary artiste
is more appropriate.
Skin of my teeth
Yeah, that's pretty much what it's been like around here. I'm having a more-than-difficult time juggling the return to full-time teaching, and all the various things I have taken on and don't see any way out of. Major home repairs have sapped my strength and my energy, and it will come as no surprise that I have seriously considered (b)logging off for good.
Writing this used to be a release from the pent up stress, grief, and rage, but lately it feels like one more joyless obligation--even though I am always warmed by the loving comments of my indefatigable readers, those happy few.
Badger's feeling the blues
, and as I myself approach the dread one-year mark, I feel them too. There's something so awful about the "anniversary" of the moment you lost everything. And with a loss like this, I find I'm longing to drag out the days, to make them go more slowly. It simply cannot have been almost a year since I last spoke to my husband, or held his hand, or slept in his arms. Marking that first year feels like another little death, since it marks as well how far he has receded into the past. I think of him all the time, but am having to work harder to bring him into my conversations, since more and more of those conversations take place with people who never--or scarcely--knew him. I still bring him up, but it feels more artificial, and creates an awkward pause in the conversation.
I can endure, but I don't know how to get the joy back. Perhaps that's simply too much to ask.