At long last, an update

Well, I have been busy; at least relative to the overburden of inertia, acedia, and blank despair which governed me for the better part of a year (conservatively speaking).

Those characters are familiar intimates of long standing; but when combined in the admixture I have been describing here, my father’s death, and the declining fortunes of romance and her blank but darkened face, an unprecedented loss of hope and consequent radical decline in momentum was the precipitate. Latterly, of course, broken bones have augmented the decline with punishment for every ambitious physical effort.
Of course the last occurred during a reprieve from nearly total isolation, with a returning prospect of possible friendship.
And yes, romance is dead, and we killed it.

I’m sure that irony is peeking through all the seams; but I haven’t yet quite placed it.

In any event, I record the relevant events of the last week or two, with the usual undercurrent of bitterness and resentment.

And now I find no stomach for it, or rather the stomach says ‘No’.

As a token gesture toward what I hope will follow when the stomach settles, my last message to herself. The hermeneutically acute may understand it readily, but exegesis will come with the more thorough report.

Thus:

Shall I take it then that ‘making it work’ has ceased to be of any interest?

Hope your party’s worth it. Maybe so.

Freedom, to be a *l**, as you used to call it, is the only sane reason I can think of. (Finishing this morning’s exchange.)

So it goes. Have fun. And good luck.

Cheers.

By rights, the final nail, on its mark.

Indeed

A cloud of depression; not misery, not sadness, but seeing a reenactment of withdrawal without prospect of deviation from the course.
Even the friendship that offered prospect of shared interest and activity is diminishing in a trajectory that comes to earth in an emotional desert.

The obligatory (as it was, say, until last July) bitter aside observes that a week and a half ago we had a sparkly visit that cemented the conviction that a brighter future for friendship lay ahead, and yet in the days that followed the visits grew more perfunctory and brief; and now they no longer occur regularly, she is caught up more and more with engagement in the renovations, and once they are finished she will move elsewhere, meaning an end to whatever might have developed.
For a few days I reassured myself it was only the familiar dynamic of growing closeness provoking a hasty retrenchment which would dissipate soon; a normal deviation, not determinative.
Now, it appears yet again I was wrong, and it’s back to being alone with no prospect of civilized community or hope of sustaining friendship on the horizon.

At least the rib seems to be mending quickly this time, and the pain and bloat are no longer as troubling; and food is taking on fresh importance with a desire to regain essential weight, perhaps even vitality.

Horror

As so often hereabouts (as the odd regular reader may recognize) expectations and thus intentions are waylaid by events (whether internal or external). Frequently.
In the event spoken of here, a miserable but still triumphal Friday (I got through it, fulfilled my commitments, benefitted from meeting a friend for coffee ) was followed by a dreadful Saturday. Seeing the doctor on Friday I learned I had unwittingly failed to follow her pain medication regimen and was facing a measure of detox. (My daughter the nurse pointed out that the doctor’s regimen would have been in any event inadequate.) But there it was. I began as soon as I got home.
The next morning, beginning at 6 a.m. I found myself labouring under an increasing weight of horror. Much howling, groaning, involuntary spasms. All inescapable. Tried Emergency; no help. Finally slept at 4 a.m.

I won’t elaborate greatly on contributing factors; this is only the briefest rough sketch which I hope will allow extended development for some time to come. It is possible to see horror, after all, in a grain of sand. In fact I trace it to a clip on the Atlantic website of Peter Watkin’s first film, nothing like as gory as the common fare these days, portraying the Battle of Culloden where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s ragtag Highland irregulars were slaughtered.

Certainly it drew directly on being with my father at his difficult and painful death. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom offers one popular paradigm.
Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection” (#48)

“Man, how fast his firedint, ' his mark on mind, is gone!
Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark
Drowned. O pity and indig ' nation! Manshape, that shone
Sheer off, disseveral, a star, ' death blots black out; nor mark
Is any of him at all so stark”

is entirely apt . But the most deeply terrifying instance that weighed on me was the story of Abraham’s receiving the Covenant. He was overcome with “a horror of great darkness”. So at the bottom of all things is an endless void, inside us and everywhere immersing us. That void is Horror; and that is how God approached Abraham.

I came through it, but I hope to work it out at great length. At the moment I still find myself too weak to approach it more closely. (I am suffering a good deal of sickness from this rib.)

Kept in touch with my palliative-care nurse daughter, which was a great help, if not offering actual deliverance. And N.B. f3 was kind and uncomplainingly helpful when called upon.

Innovations in the News

A fundamental change.
It may even be proper to consider abandoning this site; because it a site devoted to the ins and mostly outs of Romance.

But now romance is dead and we may have killed it, or it may have died of disease, entirely likely, or old age and exhaustion, not unlikely.
In any event its demise crept up behind us on little cat feet; and suddenly, everything’s changed: And Romance lost.
The romance in question is the “neurasthenic, self-sacrificing and self-destructive” sort (as I described it in a message to f3). Not that any other sort is likely to appear in its place.
We may hope not.

(more tomorrow)

Tonight

Here it is: A World-historical Moment. The country leading the world to Hell in a blood-drenched money-pouch is changing direction. A person uniquely qualified to lead it back from the brink is being chosen as its leader. He has done so by embodying an ‘old-fashioned’ sort of decency and respect, showing a cool head and a generous heart. On top of that, he has represented himself, his values, and his purposes, as untainted by manipulation and deviousness in a way so persuasive as to disarm almost everyone, barring unscrupulous fear-mongers of many stripes and fearful, deeply dug-in cynics.

I am being blatantly guarded in two ways here.
I use the words represented and embodied to indicate an inevitable degree of fabrication; a story has been built, with astonishing care and masterful grace capturing and embodying humane ideals and Christian virtues, inclusive and attentive, gentle and generous.
But yet, a construction; subject to frightening uncertainty and inaccuracy in calculating turns of events potentially catastrophic, and the imponderable flaws, malice and (self)-deception attending all matters engaging humanity.
Speaking as one painfully conscious of the powers of self-deception, and the ability of others to manipulate that capacity, it is a dangerous place to stand when great matters are at stake. But then, no place is safe under those circumstances.
We will as always hope for redemption.

So here I sit on such a night, ready to spill my petty romantic disappointment and failure on the screen.
But perhaps I will wait.
Waiting will be good.

F3

My hero.

Gotta say

The framework now is physical. Vomiting, persisting pain and nausea. Or just: Debilitating nausea.
F3 even insisted on my calling my dear and wonderful daughter the nurse, who has offered advice about painkillers I have taken to the doctor. All this is the continuation of the broken rib/cancer story; which next is to be adjudicated on the basis of a bone scan on the tenth, a week-and-a-half hence, with consideration being given to osteoporosis. The daughter was of course wonderful to talk to; mostly her counsel was simply to hold course, intriguingly suggesting it could be withdrawal from opioids the doctor had replaced with a strong antinflammatory on Monday.
So it’s been settled. I’m not at all enjoying my current state.
F3 made some ginger tea, to which I was able to add honey, but even her kindness couldn’t do much to budge or bridge the misery.

What makes this post suitable for Squeasy, home to romantic muddlings [heretofore neglected recommendation is hereby issued for Alan Jacobs’ post at American Scene, “when I come to be old”, quoting Jonathan Swift at the age of 22 writing about the failings of old age from which he hoped to remain free. It seems wonderfully congruent to my own dangers of state; two of his memoranda were concerned with not falling into romance with, either marrying, or accepting flattery from, a younger woman. Also, my comment stood alone for some time; perhaps I applauded too enthusiastically: but the number of visitors here from my commenter’s link has been amazing. So on that basis alone I should have provided a link before now.]
But there is another excellent (and primary) reason, which is its dovetailing with, again, the subject here. Granted the context of general disability, I feel strongly that I must with complete sadness set my face towards, um, not pressing, only being present upon demand for and from f3. I must leave alone her concerns which don’t concern me; I must accept my tertiary (at best) status in her attentions and fiercely decline to demand (all the while craving) more.

[Note: a temporal break after the word ‘um’. It was late, I was sick and otherwise diminished. I leave the above as evidence for a state by which I am sometimes visited and for which I always feel some miserable sympathy.]

In any event the requirement remains: Accept my place as she defines it in her world, and submit gracefully and discreetly to her need for my absence; weigh my world in terms of opportunities rather than rights, measure my time in gifts and blessings rather than fights. On the one hand that defines my view already; on the other, accepting rejection is a toughie for us narcissists, but also a necessity, as for all.