Peter O'Toole / DVD Swoon

Today is payday -- and bonus check day -- so I clicked over to Amazon. . . . And found both the miniseries "Masada" and the movie "Becket" have recently been released to DVD at reasonable prices.

"Masada" came out while I was in my teens and I still remember the violent, tragic story. It was released in a very expensive VHS edition so I wasn't willing to get it before. It's one of those productions I'd given up on having re-released.

It's been quite a while since I bought and watched new DVD's -- but I'm really looking forward to next week.

Distinctions

This morning I am realizing that I now understand the difference between "intensity" and "drama."

I will elaborate later, when I'm not posting from my gadget.

Definitions

As a follow-up to my previous post, I offer the following entirely subjective and personal definitions.

"Intensity" -- heightened experience, going above and beyond the ordinary in a positive way.

"Drama" -- unwelcome, unnecessarily fraught situation that could be avoided or ended if those involved including -- especially -- myself, would act like emotionally mature grown-ups.

Tired

I'm tired tonight.
The drama (much of it my own damn fault for allowing it to be drama) I spluttered through today has been going on for several days, and even though I'm now over it, it's drained me.

I'm tired, and I want to put on my pj's and curl up with someone on the couch, eat red meat and biscuits, and watch an undemanding movie. That's not going to happen. At least, not the "curl up with someone" part.

I'd been planning to make some substantive posts both here and on feral_holiness, but I don't think that's going to happen either. Not tonight.

Instead, I'm going to cook biscuits, pan grill a steak, pour a bit of vodka in my Diet Coke, and curl up with A Companion to Wolves and hope it's magical and engaging.

Friday

I'm beginning to hate Friday nights.

It's not about not having someone to go out with. I'm not a "going out" kind of person.

It's the not having him here, not having his arms to settle into at the end of a long week, not having the warmth of his presence, the strength of his body, the fierce tenderness of his passion.

My house is empty. My daughter is with her father. None of the friends who I feel like I can call when I'm crying are answering their phones. And then I mourn the drifting apart from the friends who I no longer feel like I can call when I'm crying.

I feel very alone.

Sometime during the last year I lost the knack of being alone. I used to like it, be comfortable in it, but now I've stumbled into loneliness, the pain of being alone, and I hate it.

He should not be gone. He should be here, with me.


I've never written here about his death. He died bravely -- not wanting to leave me, but not fearing the darkness. He'd been there before, had absolute assurance that it was not the end. He would not have cared, except that he did not want to leave me. He could see, with eyes of spirit, the ravens coming for him, could feel the weakness dragging down his body. We at least had the grace of a deliberate, conscious goodbye. He kissed me long and deep, with all the strength he had left, holding me tight, leaving a last set of marks on my flesh, a last bruise above my heart to carry the echoes of his energy for another few days. Then he lay back, releasing me into ongoing life as he surrendered himself to death -- and his body convulsed several times, and then he was gone. And I held on to my composure for as long as I could, and then I cried, and then I screamed and I screamed and I screamed as Lee held me, being strong for me in the midst of his own grief and shock -- because they had been closer than brothers for many years.

He was bright and vivid and fierce, and in loving me he had rediscovered joy and love and gentleness after too many years of fighting and bitterness. He was my husband, and a father-presence to my daughter without usurping the role of her real father. He was my king, and I was his queen and his wise woman and his priestess. He cooked dinner with me, did the dishes with me, teased me, respected me, loved me with every fiber of his being. I had only ever dreamed of being loved like that. He was my daimon made flesh. Since I was twelve years old, I'd dreamed of him. Every romantic, sexy story I'd ever written, every fantasy I'd had in the most secret places of my mind, were about him.

He was with me for less than a year.

It's Friday night, and the years ahead seem very long and very empty, because he is still my husband, and I can't imagine sharing my body or my spirit with anyone the way I did with him.