(no subject)
In trying to wrap my head around the pain of my fiance and his family, I can't help but recall the loss of my grandfather. I know it doesn't seem or feel the same to say "I lost my grandfather so I know how you feel" to someone who lost a father, but that's what my granddad was to me.
When I knew that things were finally getting bad, when the realization of his mortality actually hit me, I didn't exactly cry. I cried three tears when they told me his diagnosis, when I realized that I would be on the other side of the country for the holidays instead of spending them with him like I always had. Zach gave me valium and a giant glass of wine and I curled up in our empty bathtub and let the valium turn everything hollow. There is something to be said for the comfort to be found in cold porcelain against your face and being surrounded on all sides with only the ceiling to look at. I don't know if it is a remnant of something I learned while in the hospital as a child, but there are very few things I find more comforting than a small tight space to curl up in. Closets and bathtubs. Go figure.
The first time I really cried about the fact that my grandfather was going to die was while Zach was watching Glee and they were butchering Florence + The Machine's "Shake It out". I was actually angry to cry at something so badly done, but for some reason that became the song that I associate most closely with the passing of my grandfather. After he passed away in June, Zach got us tickets for our anniversary to go see Florence + The Machine at a big outdoor venue in San Diego. I dreaded the inevitable moment that they would do that song, but it was such a beautiful perfect moment. I was surrounded by a group of people, dancing, singing along, some of whom were openly weeping just as much as I was.
I still can't hear any rendition of "Shake It Out" without starting to cry. I've thought about covering it on the guitar, but my throat closes up on me when I try to sing it.
There is something I miss about live music that I don't think my fiance necessarily gets. I love the connection, not just with the artist but with the people around me. The most alive and part of something I feel is when I'm surrounded by other people, often covered in sweat that is mostly not my own, dancing and singing and feeling something as a group. I haven't felt it in so long and I almost feel like it is something from my past. Something I may never recover.
That photo is probably one of my favorite pictures ever taken of me. I was 22 and had just finished seeing an Alkaline Trio show in Pomona. My hair is soaking wet and I can't remember if I was turning when my ex took this picture or if it was my hair having absorbed the frenetic energy of the entire night, but this is how I most feel. Alive, electric, and incapable of sitting still. That girl is still in there inside me.
Also, apparently full of a.d.d. because this entry was supposed to be about one thing and became something else entirely. You're welcome.
When I knew that things were finally getting bad, when the realization of his mortality actually hit me, I didn't exactly cry. I cried three tears when they told me his diagnosis, when I realized that I would be on the other side of the country for the holidays instead of spending them with him like I always had. Zach gave me valium and a giant glass of wine and I curled up in our empty bathtub and let the valium turn everything hollow. There is something to be said for the comfort to be found in cold porcelain against your face and being surrounded on all sides with only the ceiling to look at. I don't know if it is a remnant of something I learned while in the hospital as a child, but there are very few things I find more comforting than a small tight space to curl up in. Closets and bathtubs. Go figure.
The first time I really cried about the fact that my grandfather was going to die was while Zach was watching Glee and they were butchering Florence + The Machine's "Shake It out". I was actually angry to cry at something so badly done, but for some reason that became the song that I associate most closely with the passing of my grandfather. After he passed away in June, Zach got us tickets for our anniversary to go see Florence + The Machine at a big outdoor venue in San Diego. I dreaded the inevitable moment that they would do that song, but it was such a beautiful perfect moment. I was surrounded by a group of people, dancing, singing along, some of whom were openly weeping just as much as I was.
I still can't hear any rendition of "Shake It Out" without starting to cry. I've thought about covering it on the guitar, but my throat closes up on me when I try to sing it.
There is something I miss about live music that I don't think my fiance necessarily gets. I love the connection, not just with the artist but with the people around me. The most alive and part of something I feel is when I'm surrounded by other people, often covered in sweat that is mostly not my own, dancing and singing and feeling something as a group. I haven't felt it in so long and I almost feel like it is something from my past. Something I may never recover.
That photo is probably one of my favorite pictures ever taken of me. I was 22 and had just finished seeing an Alkaline Trio show in Pomona. My hair is soaking wet and I can't remember if I was turning when my ex took this picture or if it was my hair having absorbed the frenetic energy of the entire night, but this is how I most feel. Alive, electric, and incapable of sitting still. That girl is still in there inside me.
Also, apparently full of a.d.d. because this entry was supposed to be about one thing and became something else entirely. You're welcome.