I turn to this blog again for the moment, in order to speak as I would to Eoin, if I were free to speak to him. Writing to a memory, in a diary left open for anyone to read, if they find it, if they care.
Dear memory...
I return to my schoolwork with some diligence, some gratitude for the occupation, and mostly an air of restless boredom, as of waiting for a bus or a flight during my travels; a long space of time I must endure, and so I do, occupying myself as I can, or sitting still and watchful, tired; my mind flitting forward to where I am going, the processes of getting there; flitting back to the places from which I've come, and resting for brief moments on the experience of waiting, the in-between state, the present with its burdens and fatigue and expectations, a trial long but not difficult; I have little doubt of doing well in my courses, so long as I put in the time. Voldemort slowly stirring a cauldron, perhaps.
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The other night, I ran a D&D game that I had put many of my hours into designing during the strike; a project while I had little other structure, a way to engage with friends, perhaps make a few new ones. Provide some measure of entertainment, support some kind of community, take some measure of fulfillment for my need to be of use to someone.
The first adventure space was intentionally simple, but still, we played five hours or so, into the morning, to finish a big fight even though most of us had grown very tired. The tone was more joking than I had hoped, a bit; I can seek to moderate it to a more serious tone in the future if I put my mind to it. I think all the players had fun, although one was a stranger and did not talk much, in the face of much familiar chattering between the rest of us who knew one another already. I saw in retrospect that I had not been applying cover rules where I should have been. However, the party did get their impressive victory surviving a tough fight, uncovered clues toward their goal, and established the first themes of inter-character interactions. I worked with a player to level up a character, having gained a level faster than his companions due to starting a bit behind.
I didn't mind all that much in the grand scheme of things that I missed classes the next day, having forgotten to take my phone off silent so it could wake me up.
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I had a test today, covering the various uses of Excel one of my classes has focused on. I forgot that it was today, and did not find it notable except as another thing I submit to because it is to be done, with neither any particular anxiety nor a great deal of interest. It is part of the waiting to me.
Last week, I went to speak to a counselor, as I had planned. I spoke of my feelings about you, dear memory. The surrender of the resolution I found that I had made. I asked her to check me if she saw any sign that my intent was reckless or foolish. No; she could see that I was deeply affected, that my eyes shone and glittered with emotion when I spoke of what you meant to me, and in that light, she could understand my resolution to make my way back to Ireland, marked that I intended to take my care and ensure my means carried me there steadily.
I say surrender. This may seem like a strange word to give to resolution. I say surrender, because I was at war within myself, and that conflict had been bad for me; war always scars the territory on which it rages. In order to bring the constant drain of the fight to peace, I would have to surrender on one side or on the other. Sacrifice myself to myself, for wisdom and power, like the legend of Odin.
So I surrender, and accept that this is how my story must go, for the time being; for fey glamour, the essential element of fairy stories, that strange vividness beside which any colour is faded and grayed, the stirring resonance without which life is merely existence, that force which renders any move aimless unless steered by the pull of its particular compass...
I have always been prone to feel this way, a strange impossible wistfulness for something so nebulous that I might not even have ever had this unknown thing, I may not know the shape of it, but there is a wounded place in me where it is missing. Perhaps this is part of the reason I always loved fairy stories, which captured that sense so well.
And for this particular chapter of my life, the glamour is upon you, dear memory. It whispers your name, your smile, your voice, and all the things we have done together. I never really wanted to turn away from what my heart demands; those things you said that gave me the uncertain and fearful impression that you would rather I leave you behind are no longer said to me, I can begin to forget them.
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Today, my mind wandered back to one place in particular. The farm roads I showed you that forked through the bands of trees and between the fields. Wooded enough to soothe some of my desire for the deep forests of my youth; open and soft enough to stretch and learn your art beside you, take stance and step and instruction. Secluded enough to sing without shyness, and long enough to walk for hours.
I remembered sitting for a while on the rocks where the stream came under the path, and listening to you speak of your grandparents and their stories, and the places familiar to your youth.
I remembered again the magnificent mystery of the destroyed car we found there, the delight of finding every clue; the melted glass, the ash, the metal bent out by impact and by blasts of heat, the marks of how far it may have been dragged off to clear the path, the shell cases in the bushes nearby. It was a great and joyful thing to me, sharing that investigation with you, seeing you just as fascinated, someone who did not tire and bore of it much before I did. Someone with whom I could share the joy and discovery and the patient work of unraveling a real riddle.
I remember navigating past those deep mud puddles, and talking of the past. There were things I told you along that road, with eyes glancing to and away with uncertainty and embarrassment, parts of my story that are so personal to me that I do not think I ever shared them here. A sort of experience I didn't expect you to have much respect for, more superstitious than you are or care to be. But you did not pass judgement then.
I remain convinced that in all my memories of the time I spent with you, although I was sometimes stiff and intolerant in some conviction, and sometimes so wild and desperate with pain and isolation that I could not let you reach me, the only time you ever seemed to judge me or show any disappointment was when I let my pain run over into spite.
I do not know whether I ever thanked you properly for that. I cannot say enough how I love you, and I love you for checking me when I crossed that line as much as I love you for forgiving me everything else up to it with such easy grace. You had the conviction to hold me to my own values when I fall apart so much that I begin to forget them. I want that in a companion.
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