Contrary to the jokes I crack on the internet about being a double Taurus I am slow to anger and you’re not so much toeing the line as you have pole-vaulted over it. I don’t want to rehash the one-sided conversation I’ve been having, I just want to point something out:
In January 2017 I had a stroke. I was bed-ridden for two months after. There’s a solid two years of that must have happened to someone else even though all the pictures are of me. Recovery was a graying string of medications that left me too weak to move.
But a friend I’d not seen since middle school brought their new spouse to play card games with me to re-teach me math and memory. A girl I’d met in a coffee shop who barely knew my name brought me flowers and books to read when the edema let up. My sorority sisters took me to plays when I could walk again and made sure I had food that suited my new dietary needs. My best friend in Denver made me call her every day to talk even when I dropped words because language itself was newly the Gordian knot I still grapple with.
Do you remember what you did, those grueling months after I crawled my way back from my date with Death?
You didn’t write, you didn’t call.
You didn’t bother to like the tweet I made about being bored at discharge.
If you try to tell anyone you did anything at all? You’re a liar.
This weekend I rewatched the first two seasons of Hannibal and, wow, y’all, have I got a lot to say about this show. For my regular readers: I’m not a Fannibal or Hannibal blogger™, I swear. I just have problems with impulse control when I encounter a piece of media with so many complex layers and an inherent queerness. Don’t expect fancy, or even basic editing, but do expect lots and lots of feelings about history, poetry, and love.
TL;DR: Buckle up nerds, Rae’s gonna talk about Renaissance Italian romantic tropes and Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal. Spoiler alert: this is incredibly gay.
Continue reading “Lover & Beloved”
The Introvert Girl Gang is the first place anyone ever told me that running away is easier if you’re already going somewhere. This was something experience taught me but I’d never heard it said before and I almost cried at how much it explained. This was why I shrank at the thought of vacations. This was why I hadn’t applied to more than one college — because that might mean not leaving but having to return home. Not that that’d made much difference. I went to college anyway. I ran away anyway.
A slow study in pressure. How much travel could I handle, how long could home escalate before I decided no more. It happened slow, bordering on silent, smothering magma-hot and black until I could see no horizon.
The summer I visited Mo is a blur.
Brian had been worse than ever and I had been living in a fog of flashbacks and ash. Nightmares about my teeth splitting apart in my mouth, falling flat against my rotting tongue followed me into the morning. I could always smell him and taste him and hear him breathing. Even at night the house wouldn’t quiet.
I visited Mo. I had nothing to lose.
Her mother was compassionate and rough and waited with me through panic and had no patience for my pretending at spinelessness. Her laugh was a balm for my nerves. She did not flinch at cutting away those dead things that no longer served a purpose. She was kind.
I simply could not leave again. The perfect excuse to carve out a place where I could breathe fresh air and madness and rain and remember that there is nothing quite like volcanic soil and rot for growing things.
It’s easier to run away when you’re already going somewhere. It’s easier to stay gone once you’ve planted something there.