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yan5g5i0
Wysłany: Czw 8:23, 26 Maj 2011
Temat postu: Cool Greys Fictions On Grief
I don’t like these modern fictions, these post-modern, post-Western mythos of bravado and in-the-face-of-death steelinesses. I was terrified it would be him; of all of them he was the one I favored most; extra than the redhead, more than the Southern belle. And oddly, it was the black woman who was most out of role. She the one whose operations the most distorted into a John Wayne legacy of “we’ll catch on him ourselves.” “Let me take him, Horatio,” she soothes; “let me take him.” And it is terrifying what she’s proposing. Because it is a guilt scene, she is the and he was one of theirs.
A changing of the guard, and I’m no sure I favor it. I choose certainty in my age age. Leave sensibility, rightness, conscience apt Blackness, let us hold our rightful place of sensation, deep keening, let us persist apt teach them how to hold,
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, express, sorrow. For we have understood not end of it. Don’t let’s chance them: steel-eyed reservists who endure despite grief, cops who do the job they must despite losing one of their own; while did we start to differentiate ourselves these fables of stoicism, of working amenable despite the sudden detriment of those we adore, work with, attention deeply for?
I have tried to put a face on it, tried to hold myself attach, and the drugs assisted; every immediately and again it pays to have a bipolar condition. Those mood stabilizers unexpectedly came in convenient.
Don’t believe the hype, a fashionable campaign says. I would carry it beyond. Let’s go back, I’d say, to the pre-Christian institution. Let us rip and disrupt our clothes, tear out our cilia, cover our mirrors, let us dress black for twelve months, sob for a year. Let’s not remember analyze compartmentalize the stages of necrosis and dying, let us dig deeper, bury ourselves in our loss, for God’s sake be unafraid to feel someone, something heartrending.
When will we take time for grief anew? Resist the TV images that mention it is noble to solve the riddle, detect the guilty, whereas your partner/lover/friend lays dead, shot via the heart. Am I bad to surmise prompts of a corporate information, Big Brother attempting in his resourceful course to build up our belief that we truly don’t need bereavement depart, that when somebody passes we won’t need a week, a month, a annual to retrieve? Big Brother wants us behind by work, upper lips stiff and in place. Our friends ambition to trust that we are essentially alright, that we are not destroying down and falling separately.
It is an aberration, this determined stiff-lipped working through the ache. I remember my mother’s body, prepared for outlooking, her eyes sewn shut and her lip unnaturally pursed and I would have wanted to do nobody of it, naught of it, I still want her alive and breathing, laughing, cracking jokes with her caustic, hilarious intellect. I would have wanted to be there when they scatter her ashes,
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, would have wanted to look her conscience take flight, her ashes white wings traversing invisible boundaries among the alive and the dead; I’d prefer her alive and complaining than dead and helping me from the other side. I would have wanted to scatter her ashes, but I would not have wanted to work the crematory.
How have we come to a place where it is the redhead,
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,
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, the one in dictate, the pearly male,
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, who sheds the 1st tear, is the most quaked, exhibits the most humanity, the deepest hurt? How have we let this occur? We were the conscience of the nation. We were above the side of right, of judge. We knew the most almost ache for we had been stripped of anything. How have we come to a place, a state of idea, of creature, in which a black matron takes charge of the carving up of a much-loved crew membership, the staid one,
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, the intellectual one, the one I loved best for he wasn’t flashy, wasn’t super handsome, traded on his brain and not his body? When did this transition occur?
But I have spent this past year waiting, in my calm moments marveling will
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