I'm watching two videos this morning. The first is of me and was taken yesterday by Louis at her Christmas party. I am struck first off by how very old I look. This cannot be me, I think, and yet it is. The proof is overwhelming. I'm struck secondly by how very similar my movements and facial expressions are to those of my son, now gone from us since March of the year. I think 'How very like Holden this is.' And yet, that is surely backward, isn't it? Isn't it more likely that his bodily attitude and facial expressions were like mine rather than the other way around? I do not see this as a good thing, because there is a reticence in my movements, a sort of stage fright in my interactions with others, an unsureness. I mumble and mutter rather than speak, seeming to poke about for the proper thing to say. Poor Holden. These are the things he must have inherited from me from his earliest childhood, and they are the things I most dislike about myself. In him, they were exaggerated to the extent where they looked very odd indeed. I'm so sorry, Holden.
I talked to Holden's mother on the phone on Xmas Eve (Xmas Eve there in America, Christmas morning here in Bali). I have always called on Christmas Eve as long as I have been in Bali, the point of that being to talk to Holden, who always visited their home on Xmas Eve to eat dinner and open presents. This was the first year without him, and so I wanted to call and see how Mom was doing, and Tim, her husband, to give them my holiday greetings as always. During our chat, Debbie (Holden's mother) asked if I ever dream of Holden. In fact, I do dream of him often since his death, whereas I very rarely dreamed of him beforehand. "Does he still talk like he talked?" Debbie asked, "or does he speak normally in the dreams?" I realized as soon as she asked this that this is exactly what is different in the dreams, for Holden does move and speak quite normally therein. There is none of the stilted quality, the artificiality, the unsureness. Thank God! At least you have escaped this self-imposed bane.
Actually, I blame my own retiring posture and affect on my brother, who was free of artifice, outgoing, comfortable in almost any situation--always simply himself, to hell with anyone who didn't like it. I loved him with unspeakable vigor, such that the lion's share of my very being moved and lived in him. What was left, what was sheared off of him, the overshadowed shadow, remained to shyly and unsurely walk among men and call itself me. When he died, I thought 'Now I will be you. There is no one else left to do it.' But I did not become him, any more than a frog ever really becomes a prince. How is it that my brother did not impart his charisma to me? How is it that I gave as an inheritance mere self-consciousness?
Who can say?
The second video was taken by my little friend Ira in Borneo. She was bored at the time (bored in Borneo) and so sent a video of herself feeling bored. But what strikes me about this video is that she has made an amusement of being bored! I smile every time I watch it, and even laugh at the end when she herself giggles, making faces, panning at the camera. She so reminds me of my younger daughter, who would also often enough make a game of boredom such that it would become anything but. Ira, also, is very comfortable in her own skin, a blessing which I both admire and envy. Even so, I happily swim in sparkling waters such as these. I enjoy, in her, a feast of human delight.
I wish, by the way, that I could post these two videos here, but for some reason Blogger won't play videos. Sorry.
I talked to Holden's mother on the phone on Xmas Eve (Xmas Eve there in America, Christmas morning here in Bali). I have always called on Christmas Eve as long as I have been in Bali, the point of that being to talk to Holden, who always visited their home on Xmas Eve to eat dinner and open presents. This was the first year without him, and so I wanted to call and see how Mom was doing, and Tim, her husband, to give them my holiday greetings as always. During our chat, Debbie (Holden's mother) asked if I ever dream of Holden. In fact, I do dream of him often since his death, whereas I very rarely dreamed of him beforehand. "Does he still talk like he talked?" Debbie asked, "or does he speak normally in the dreams?" I realized as soon as she asked this that this is exactly what is different in the dreams, for Holden does move and speak quite normally therein. There is none of the stilted quality, the artificiality, the unsureness. Thank God! At least you have escaped this self-imposed bane.
Actually, I blame my own retiring posture and affect on my brother, who was free of artifice, outgoing, comfortable in almost any situation--always simply himself, to hell with anyone who didn't like it. I loved him with unspeakable vigor, such that the lion's share of my very being moved and lived in him. What was left, what was sheared off of him, the overshadowed shadow, remained to shyly and unsurely walk among men and call itself me. When he died, I thought 'Now I will be you. There is no one else left to do it.' But I did not become him, any more than a frog ever really becomes a prince. How is it that my brother did not impart his charisma to me? How is it that I gave as an inheritance mere self-consciousness?
Who can say?
The second video was taken by my little friend Ira in Borneo. She was bored at the time (bored in Borneo) and so sent a video of herself feeling bored. But what strikes me about this video is that she has made an amusement of being bored! I smile every time I watch it, and even laugh at the end when she herself giggles, making faces, panning at the camera. She so reminds me of my younger daughter, who would also often enough make a game of boredom such that it would become anything but. Ira, also, is very comfortable in her own skin, a blessing which I both admire and envy. Even so, I happily swim in sparkling waters such as these. I enjoy, in her, a feast of human delight.
I wish, by the way, that I could post these two videos here, but for some reason Blogger won't play videos. Sorry.
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