I already know how you are in love with your weeping. But please don’t write again to tell me how you have woken up weeping. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.ĩ5. But, this psychologist insists, we must face the fact that some crying is simply “maladaptive, dysfunctional, or immature.”ĩ4. “At first glance, it seems strange to think that an innocuous, inborn behavior such as crying could be dysfunctional or symptomatic,” writes one clinical psychologist. ( Can a reflection be a witness? Can one pass oneself the sponge wet with vinegar from a reed?)ĩ3. She says (kindly) that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair. Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping–its intensity, its frequency. Blue-eye, archaic: “a blueness or dark circle around the eye, from weeping or other cause.”ĩ2. I recognized this was a rite of decadence, but I did not know how to stop it.ĩ1. the tears not only aged my face, they also changed its texture, turned the skin of my cheeks into putty. I watched the lines arrive around my eyes like engraved sunbursts it was like watching flowers open in time-lapse on a windowsill. Last night I wept in a way I haven’t wept for some time. Often I feel myself to be rocking between them (seasickness).90. I have heard that this pain can be converted, as it were, by accepting “the fundamental impermanence of all things.” This acceptance bewilders me: sometimes it seems an act of will at others, of surrender. He had gone through the book with a highlighter pen, he said, and added: I. For to wish to forget how much you loved someone–and then, to actually forget–can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart. In 2005, when Maggie Nelson’s book Jane: A Murder was published, she received a letter from a homicide detective. “I always felt that there was an invisible male seducing the woman I was with, now whether this one was incarnate or merely imaginary I don’t remember.” I find this forgetting quite heartening and quite tragic, in turns. In a 1994 interview, about twenty years after he wrote “Famous Blue Raincoat,” Cohen admitted that he could no longer remember the specifics of the love triangle that the song describes. But one can lose the memory of whiteness, too. “No whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory/of whiteness,” wrote Williams. This seems unimaginable, but the fact is that it happens all the time. I suppose it is possible that one day we will meet again and it will feel as if nothing ever happened between us.
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