grief and insistence

"All I really have to say about life is that for it to be regarded as valuable, it has to first be regarded as grievable." Judith Butler, interview in Guernica (2010)

grief insists that it  be recognized...the on-and on-ness of its insistence is vast and untraceable and yet still it persists in its continuous quest for validation

chicago

“Love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision.” ― Judith Butler

"The moment of change is the only poem.” ― Adrienne Rich

sorrow and the prospect of a resurrection

“The soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can and tends it.” 
― Stephen King, Pet Sematary

untitled sorrow

"Mother I made it up from the bruise on the floor of this prison/Mother I lost it all of the fear of the Lord I was given/Mother forget me now that the creek drank the cradle you sang to/Mother forgive me I sold your car for the shoes that I gave you"

--Samuel Ervin Beam

"Let be be finale of seem."

"how everything turns away/Quite leisurely from the disaster" from Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts"

here is grief

maxwell april 1, 1996-march 10, 2014

this is an ongoing narrative because it is based in grief and grief like writing is never finished
i know that it hasn't been a month yet but the silence is overwhelming
i almost called to him the other day and i can sometimes still see him in the corner of my eye, i hate the fact that he is now in my periphery...i think that that is the most painful part because i can no longer trust my senses. they fool me and my heart hasn't really caught up with the reality of his gone-ness
grief is just so empty and vast, trackless
i certainly can yell and scream into the void but i know that i won't hear any echo because there is nothing there for the voice to bounce off of...just swirling words that now can only be spoken...brought into a sorry excuse for an existence, in the past tense, in a passive voice tinged with memory
holding him as he took his last breath
i tried to kiss him back to life and i tried to cry him back to me but i can't fight chemistry, the poison injected into his leg, his precious leg with his precious paws that i have kissed 1,000s of times...his eyes open and his cataracts still present, this is more than missing this is trying to figure out the rest of my journey without him. the points between a to b to c to d i hate the geometry of grief, the on-and-on-ness of it all (this learning curve is steep, alone and a capella, silently and horribly plaintive)
i am also learning that grief is selfish, it is big and it is selfish, calling the past back knowing that that is impossible but still doing it anyway through empty gestures by looking at pictures, writing narratives, calling for him in a very quiet apartment, in tri-tones, a recursive dissonance without any resolution