Thank you.

Feb. 6th, 2011 03:27 pm
sechan19: (butterfly)
To everyone who recently chimed in with support--by blog, by phone, or in person (or all of the above)--about my cat, Lucy: thank you very much. Your condolences were deeply appreciated and tremendously helpful.

Much love to all
from Teva.
sechan19: (tormenta)
Boy, am I glad that January is finally behind me.

It's been a rough month for me, good times with great friends (you know who you are [livejournal.com profile] foxxydancr and [livejournal.com profile] derrangedferret) notwithstanding. The stress of my first major conference presentation, the pressure of swinging back into classes after only a relatively brief hiatus, the near-constant cloud cover that plunged me into a nasty seasonal depression, and the memories - always perilously near the surface this time of year - bursting out at almost every turn.

In many cultures, the number three is imbued with mystical properties. In the ancient rites it forms the triad - the foundational base upon which powerful magics can be performed. In Christianity it signifies the unbroken trinity. In Buddhism the third month and the third year following death are important anniversaries.

This month marked the third year my uncle has been gone. )
sechan19: (tormenta)
Okay, so I initially figured that I wasn't going to say anything about MJ's recent death. However, it's stayed on my mind ever since it happened, and I felt that I did want to say a few words on it. So, here goes...

...I am one of those people. One of those people who grew up with Michael Jackson; whose first album was Thriller; who thought he was the bee's knees when I was ten. I still remember how my mother would get me out of bed in the morning by putting on "Wanna Be Startin' Something" when I was in preschool. (I had that awesome LP with the foldout shot of MJ with the tiger cub on his lap.) I still remember staying up late in the 8th grade to watch his concert broadcast on HBO. I owned the Moonwalker video. (And the Moonwalker book, too, bitches. And I've still got both.) I consider the video for "Smooth Criminal" to be the best dance video of all time. I dug the Alien Ant Farm cover of that song, because I perceived the heartfelt tribute inherent in it. Those guys were from my generation.

So, I have to admit that I was really upset to hear he had died.
But not for the reasons you might imagine.

I'm not interested in the laundry list of dirty secrets from the man's life. I don't know (and will never know) his real story. I can only say what I think about him. I think he was a deeply disturbed man, and I think his life was a great pity. However, despite his many troubles and crazinesses, he gifted to the world a rich musical and artistic legacy. And I am thankful for that.

And I mourn the loss of Michael Jackson. He was a pillar of my childhood, and losing him hurt. But I have been mourning the loss of Michael Jackson for years and years now. Because we all lost him long ago, and perhaps the thing that I consider saddest about all of this is that only now have most people finally noticed that heartbreaking loss.

I pray for his family. I pray for his friends and loved ones. I pray for all the future lost causes. I pray that someone will realize what is happening to them before it's too late.

You rocked my world, MJ.
Thanks for that.

I hope you're at peace now.
sechan19: (butterfly)
I have a couple of posts up my sleeve right now but neither seem truly appropriate for Thanksgiving Day. We're living in a scary world right now, as is readily evident from the recent (and still ongoing) attack in Mumbai, and it's hard not to slip into either flippancy (backup post one) or morbidity (backup post two) in order to cope. But for today, at least, I'm not going to do it.

The global economy is in crisis, and we all hang by the barest of threads (as--it could be argued--we always have). And yet for all that, I have many things for which to be thankful. I have a lively mind, a fulfilling career, wonderful friends, and the best family ever. Every day brings me experiences that enrich my life and make me aware of the fact that I could lose it all tomorrow and still be richer in memory than a queen in a palace.

And so today I give thanks. And today I choose to believe, in spite of everything, that there is still so much beauty available to us and that we can yet save it for future generations.

We will return you to your regularly scheduled flippant morbidity tomorrow. But in the meantime...

Blessed be, folks.

Memory.

Jan. 9th, 2008 11:56 pm
sechan19: (tormenta)
My condo building is heated by an old boiler, and the warm air is piped through the walls to individual radiators. As a result, I rarely need to use said radiators. My condo is almost always warm.

I kicked the blankets off my feet just now, because they were hot and I can't sleep with hot feet. And then I remembered that the last thing I spoke to my grandmother about before she died (less than a month ago) was hot feet and the inability to sleep with such. She had grown restless in the hospital bed; fretting at her blankets; pulling them up, up, up.

So I said, "Your feet are hot, aren't they? Here, let me do that for you, Grandma." And I adjusted the blankets so that her feet were free of them.

"Is that better?" I asked, and she gave the fainted of nods and her eyes closed as if in relief. The stroke had robbed her of speech, but her mind was as sharp as ever.

"I could never sleep when my feet were hot," I told her. "Of course, you know," and involuntarily my voice dipped low into conspiratorial tones even though we were alone together in the room. "When I was a little girl I used to have such a dilemma. Because, you see, I couldn't sleep when my feet were hot, but if I uncovered them I couldn't sleep because I was afraid something was going to grab me!"

She seemed to smile at this.

"What a time I used to have," I said. "Trying to work it out. Of course, it wasn't until not too long ago that I realized you were right all along and that there was nothing out there in the dark waiting for me, but you know how I hate to give up my fancies. I don't suppose I'll ever completely give up the ghost."

Grandma's eyes closed again briefly.

"You going to try to get some sleep?" I asked, and again she nodded and her eyes slipped shut. So I patted her hand to let her know I was there and said, "I'm not going anywhere, so you rest now."

Later I held her hand as she died. And just now, kicking the blankets off my feet, I remembered all of that. I imagine I'll always think of her when my feet get too warm for my blankets, and for a long time I'll cry when I do. Just as I am now.
sechan19: (butterfly)
"Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root. The body's love will teach the spirit how to love. The spasm of the body's carnal pleasure, forgetting all things but ecstasy itself, teaches the body to remember the ecstasy of the soul, forgetting all but itself, the moments of oneness, and freedom. The love a man feels only for one other in all the world will teach him, at length, love of all others, of all the world. A cry of joy, whatever its cause, is the one true memory of those wonders the flesh has banished. A cry of love is always a cry of love."

~ Tanith Lee, Delirium's Mistress
sechan19: Photo of me in a Spider-man crop trop. (Default)
We'd finally made it through the day - the memorial and reception were behind us. We'd sat stoically through the service, smiled beatifically at reception guests we'd never before seen in our lives, nodded sympathetically with the so-called bereaved. After the reception clean-up we went to the house for one last time (or so we thought) and proceeded to collect a few big-ticket items that had been left to us: a couch, a chair, a little drop-leaf table, etc. We had purchased a storage space earlier in the day.

My uncle had requested, for some strange reason, that my mother leave her set of house keys in the house, a fact that severely limited our ability to lock the door, but whatever. With the single handle lock engaged we left the house with our items and drove, in the pouring rain, to the storage facility and began unloading our things. When we were done, we closed shop, locked up, and got back in the car.

It was at this point that my mother said... )

...

Jan. 29th, 2007 01:51 am
sechan19: (tormenta)
I went and picked my mother up from the hospital this morning at a quarter after one. Grammy finally passed. Considering that the nurses were commenting that they'd seen patients in her condition last for weeks, I think that we were all spared a tremendous burden. I miss my grandmother. At the same time, I'm relieved by her death and thankful for this chance to put all the vileness of her personal character behind me; to move beyond the slights and cruelties to a place where I can remember her fondly and remember the times when she was clear and loving to me. The times I was able to draw strength from her conversation and advice, the times she found the gift that was perfectly me and made me feel special, the times she offered her help without reservation and without strings. Not the times she got drunk and called me filthy names no five-year-old should ever have to hear, nor the times she hit on the guy in high school that I was crushing on, nor the times she spat her venom at my aunt and uncle, my mother, my cousins, myself, and my friends. But rather the times she was like this.

And I hope that her next life is kinder; that her next path is more rewarding to her. It's hard to believe she's gone. But she is.

Thank god.
sechan19: (kusama)
"With a thousand eyes the river looked at him, with green ones, with white ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How he loved that water, how it delighted him, how grateful he was to it! In his heart he heard the voice speak, the newly awakened one, and it said to him: 'Love this water! Remain by it! Learn from it!' Oh, yes, he wanted to learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. Whoever understood that water and its secrets, he felt, would also understand much more, many secrets, all secrets.

"But today, of all the secrets of the river, he saw just one, which gripped his soul. He saw: this water flowed and flowed, it kept on flowing, and yet it was always there; it was always and at all times the same and yet new every moment! Oh, if he could only grasp that, understand that! He did not understand or grasp it; he merely felt the stirrings of a premonition, a distant recollection, divine voices."

~ Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

May 2014

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