12/19/2023 0 Comments Scrawl stickIt does not store any personal data.Īdvertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. The cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Performance". This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Other. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Necessary". The cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category "Functional". ![]() ![]() The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Analytics". These cookies ensure basic functionalities and security features of the website, anonymously. is it too much to ask that you at least tell me you want me to give up? caring is exhausting.Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. In these moments you are truly dead, it is too painful for me to imagine you seeing me like this: scorned and desperate. Scrolling through is to go from blue to blue to blue with no respite in his grey retorts. I have sent message upon message, hoping this seems like I am unashamed, but that is a lie. He hasn’t answered any of my messages and it has been two weeks of silence, two weeks of an empty room. Two hours later, the city has been traversed and I stand outside M&S to use their free wifi and text this boy. I put on my coat and, as I am prone to, I run away. Standing in my bedroom, fingertip on nose, the ghost dissipates and I am left with hollow space. To resurrect you is to unwrite myself to imagine a version of you that never encountered death is to imagine a version of me that never lost you: it is fiction and I mustn’t indulge in it. You cannot grow with me, and you mustn’t. Perhaps it is easier to keep you as a ghost, the woman last seen by my thirteen year old’s eyes. It is an uncomfortable exercise - not because the idea of you saying these things is painful, but because you are dead and it is backwards to imagine you as alive. This grey ghost of you tells me I am unloveable, too angry, too smug. I briefly try to imagine what you would say to me, given the chance, but the imagined you is just spouting criticisms I have prewritten for myself. Looking at myself I worry you would hate me now. It was the nightingale and not the lark, she says, thinking Of course her joy is morbid, any pleasure she feels must be echoed by the pain she will feel when she has lost it. ![]() She loves him so much that death is at their fingertips to be happy is to grieve, to be happy is to know it cannot last. The answer is obvious because of course Juliet and I both know that a presence is measured by its absence and that a life’s value is measured by how much you would mourn it were it taken from you. The final question dances up to me, asks me about Romeo and Juliet and whether Juliet can only express her jouissance by discussing Romeo’s death. I return to Adrienne Rich and, as I am prone to, leave the room hastily. I scratch out the earlier note and wonder if the only way to write an epitaph is to embrace individual perspective, always address the second person, give an invocation of a ghost but not an attempt to delineate their form. The word aura gains a spectral quality rather than artworks we discuss people - the poet’s inability to capture spirits it is impossible to write truth, it is all fiction and we mustn’t indulge in it. We take it at face value initially, discuss our thoughts on art, then eventually begin to apply it to our epitaphs. We progress through assigned reading, onto Walter Benjamin: The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. Quick note in the corner of my sheet: Write about her. Should we abide by the notion that the text is the vi-brant and living space between reader and writer, then of course to read an epitaph, to engage in memorial, is to summon the ghost subject and renew its life. ![]() Instead I posit (tutor’s word, not mine) that reading it-self is an act of resurrection.
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