"Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.”
~ Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885
This was one of the poems in a book I had as a child. I still have it, actually, in a box at the bottom of my bedroom closet, but haven’t thought of in in quite a few years. What a wonderful thing to be transported back to my mother sitting my my bed and reading that book to me when I was very small. Thank you.
On January 16th it will be a decade since she passed away.
I hate passed away. Like you’re trying to cushion something as definite as death. She “Slipped away” she “passed away” she “left us peacefully in her sleep”. No, at some point she was alive, and then she very much was not.
My mother died 10 years ago.
She never knew I’d become a parent. She never met my child. She wasn’t there to hold my hand when he was born, to help me put together my overnight bag for the hospital, to dance with me in the doctors office when they said “there’s a baby” “there’s a heartbeat” “it’s a boy” “that’s him kicking”. I didn’t call her when I saw the plus sign at 5 AM on a stick covered in my own piss.
I miss her so much. And I’m so angry at her. And it’s ludicrous to be angry at someone for dying, and I know that even with an extra ten years we’re still no closer as a society to curing the cancer that took her and tried to take her sister and mother.
But she was my mom.
She was supposed to live, she was supposed to watch me grow up into a woman who knew what the fuck she was doing with her life. She was supposed to get to a point where we could talk about all the things she said in moments of anger that have eaten at me for decades because she never had the chance to say “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that.” and I don’t know why it’s so important to me that my dead mother would admit some fault in how she treated me as a teenager, but those words cut straight through my adolescent flesh and are still digging at my ribs, and I keep my heart just barely protected. I built up walls that I wish I could tear down.
The truth is, I will spend the rest of my life looking at photos of myself hoping to see my mother in them, hoping that she passed something on to me that will keep her with me, because these random wild swinging emotions don’t show up well on film, and are the part of her I like least, My wanderlust just means I can’t stand still long enough for the shutter to click before I need to go somewhere else to find myself, and every time I start to, I remember that I don’t like what I see yet.
Maybe I don’t miss her. Maybe I just wanted to yell at her until she listened, maybe I just wanted the closure. I think that might be worse.
It’s a night where I’ve found myself sending messages to people, messages that are not what one would call polite conversation starters. But damn if I don’t need to tell people some stuff tonight.
They’re not mean, in fact most of them are quite fresh, and a bit sassy.
Gangster-esque Batman Villains by Jason Mark
Fuck this is awesome
Jay!!!!!! Jay did you see the thing?!?!
Although what you are about to see is a work of fiction, it should nevertheless be played at maximum volume.
This movie…. this fucking movie is everything.
omg omg omg omg omg
Dear redneck boys who work on cars…
IF, during our last conversation, the main part of your focus was bragging to me about making out with a girl dressed like Poison Ivy in a bar bathroom.
AND THEN you drop off the face of the planet for 2 weeks with zero communication when you have purported to “care deeply about me” and enjoy our friendship.
DO NOT, EEEEEEEEEVER expect that I’ll respond to your 2 word 3 AM booty call text on a god damn Wednesday night. I’m sure you would have “fucked the hell out of me”, but you don’t get to. Because me and my glorious vagina deserve better than you.
How the fuck did I not see what an asshat you are earlier?
Love and kisses, Shannon
cat <3 on We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/84750855/via/vzsuzsa
This cat has my concentration face on.
How is there not an entire horror movie franchise based around this terrifying mossy elk?