(no subject)
She had a small dog. Once I did a bit of digging and found out so much as the dog’s name-Otello-I stopped. I didn’t want to know anything else about it. I sensed that I was dangerously close to giving form and flesh and texture to a monumental, engulfing something: not misery, exactly, because misery is too inert; it has no love in it, and it was the manifestation of love that frightened me, the knowledge that, despite her despair, she loved and cared for a creature smaller and weaker than herself; she sat with it on her lap, spoke to it in private, affectionate gibberish; there must have been whimsy there, and goofiness and lightness, and afterwards a tether left behind, a food dish, the scurrying, expectant click of nails on tile. Traces of a warm-blooded anchor to earth, an anchor that had not been enough to keep her there. It was agony, I thought. Agony has love in it. Agony implies a certain internal wrestling, a picking up and putting down of options, a wrenching turning away from the familiar and comforting and sane. (x)
When he goes I’ll go. It’s good to know that now.
When he goes I’ll go. It’s good to know that now.