To keep on learning. Always.


“I found the definite action; but the bullfight was so far from simple and I liked it so much that it was much too complicated for my then equipment for writing to deal with and, aside from four very short sketches, I was not able to write anything about it for five years – and I wish I would have waited ten. However, if I had waited long enough I probably never would have written anything at all since there is a tendency when you really begin to learn something about a thing not to want to write about it but rather to keep on learning about it always and at no time, unless you are very egotistical, which, of course, accounts for many books, will you be able to say: now I know all about this and will write about it.”
Death in the Afternoon, E. Hemingway


Comme à chaque printemps, la neige fond et dévoile sa multitude de crottes puantes. Cette année ne fait pas exception. Mais elle restera sans doutes dans les annales pour sa puanteur remarquable.
-L’auteure de ce blogue, écrivaine et militante à ses heures, à sa façon.

She's not there

You would think that after eleven years I’d be over the worst of it. I would anyways. It’s some kind of freak phenomenon where I mourn in reverse. I was so strong when she died, I don’t think I cried that much after that day. And I have been able to recall, to share, without breaking down for years. But these days… I don’t know. It’s like… Like she’s here, trying to tell me something I worked hard to forget. I want to hear her voice. I hear her voice. I want her to be here with me, being the mom she never really was, but that I so desperately needed. Need. I’ve been teased before about my liking older men, something about me looking for a father figure. That might’ve been true a long time ago, but lately I have experienced emotions that led to thoughts I never let myself explore further. Time, life and compromise has helped my dad and I mend our relationship. I don’t know if  that would’ve happened with her. I’m not killing myself with the regrets, the what-ifs, I’m simply overwhelmed by an immense sense of loss, a loneliness that is completely new, unknown in its nature, its provenance. Why now? Why does she come up in conversation, why do I stumble upon one of her notebooks while going through my own, why do I see her reflection when I look at mine? I’ve fought so hard not to be like her, not to be her. The fears are gone, I am me, completely. And I wonder if it’s because of that that she’s making this sudden come back. I’ve let a lot of guards down, I’ve opened up, secure in who I am, who I’ve become. Not so far removed from the woman she could have been had she chosen a few different paths maybe. But overall… I could turn this over this way and that way, pry open the memory chest, cry over old birthday cards, but it won’t do any good. I don’t understand why it’s happening now, or how long it will last. But I guess I just miss having a mom. And everything that comes with it.