volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- soggy from sobbing Crikey. When someone dedicates an entry to you, the least you can do is make sure that any unsuspecting fool who clicks on the link has something interesting to look at when they arrive. Thus I’m obliged to write a new entry. Actually, I’m trying to write an essay on William & Dorothy Wordsworth’s Home at Grasmere (or Home@Grasmere as it should be called IMHO), so worthy distraction is welcome. It’s quite a sad book, as it goes. Separated as children, William and his sister Dorothy were reunited as adults, and set about revolutionising English literature in rural and domestic bliss. Except Dorothy’s feelings for William were perhaps a little unhealthy if you get my drift, and she grew progressively more and more tormented by his involvement with other women, having devoted large chunks of her adult life towards caring for him, nurturing his writing and generally just being there for him. Weird, I grant you, but the most incredible thing about her was the fact that she fanatically avoids mentioning her emotions in her journals, with only a few exceptions. Instead, the intensity of her moods is reflected in her observations of the natural world, of the metaphysical beauty of the countryside around her, the brooding sea and the twin stars that nestle beside the moon. It’s all quite beautiful, really. Some of my classmates have been struggling with it, possibly because of the journal format, but for a seasoned d-land head like me, it’s been a breeze. I still haven’t written the essay, though. It seems to have been a day filled with wonder at other people’s relationships. There’s a lot of man-bashing going on these days- of the journalistic, rather than physical type, I should add(!). there seems to be a common perception that men are crap and golly gosh, aren’t women so incredibly lucky that they barely need men any more. Now, I’m as much of a radical feminist as the next woman, but I can’t subscribe to this school of thought. I have a massive problem with the fallacy that men are either a) brutes or b) weaklings. I think they’re just as human- and thus as fallible and as wonderful as the rest of us. It’s easy to forget that men are sentient, thinking beings too, capable of loving and losing with as much pain and suffering as women. If you don’t believe me, read this. Try and do it without crying, although I failed to manage that. Which, I guess, leads me to my own situation. George and I are communicating lots right now. It’s lovely, it feels like a breath of fresh air that we can just talk again, back on that incredibly intimate level that we pioneered back when this whole thing was very fresh and young. The downside of that is that we’re now able to discuss the ongoing unfeasibility of our relationship- in terms of time and distance and money- with increasingly painful frankness. I’m not sure either of us has got the strength to keep it going. It’s stupid, really, because I’d really like our relationship to be the oasis where we go to wind down and chill out and recharge our batteries and get some good old fashioned lovin’… I told him that I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. I also told him how hurt I’ve felt as a result of his recent behaviour, and how I’ve been feeling somewhat de-prioritised. I think he was shocked about that. Bah. I don’t know. I don’t know at all. I’ve had the most enormous heap of [totally UN-related] shit erupt in the past 48 hours, and I need to be with him. I need to be stroking his neck where he smells gorgeous, I want his fingers stroking my hair, and I want to wake up in bed with him, all tangled up and squashed together into 18” of space, even though it’s king-size. Wish me luck.
8:18 p.m. - 30.11.02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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