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paladin of souls, pilgrimages, and tears
Jan. 11th, 2005 05:35 pmon my way to shrinkage last night I last night I stopped and grazed at the half-price on guadalupe (did you know they're moving?), picked up a hard cover print of Lois McMaster Bujold's Paladin of Souls. I love reading her stuff, she is human, intelligent, emotional, inventive, and all around one of the best living writers. I think she has moved me to tears more than any other single writer. This is the sequel to her Curse of Chalion and is in the brief time I've had for it in the past 24 hours delightful as any of her stuff.
The central mechanic of the story is about a pilgrimage, which seems painfully apt in my current anecclesial condition. I think our modern society could use more pilgrimage, it seemed so essential to earlier incarnations of civilzation that I suspect it touches on something fundamental to the human condition. Hell, say the word "pilgrim" and the first thing that pops into most people's head is John Wayne. I tend to do a lot of pilgrimages, it is probably the most sacred experience I can reliably evoke.
I figured out a problem nancy had been having and sent her a joebot explaining it, and while I was reading in my prefered location she replied with a few phrases that, when I came back, evoked an increadible wave of memory and sadness. They were so familiar and tied into to so many memoryies. I went to lie down (it being bedish time) and found myself crying at the loss of my marriage. I think I was crying. My eyes were full of tears, and I was gasping in wracking sobs, but not making much of any noise, not quite able to let the pain and sadness come through to the point of sound from my throat. I felt a bit like a drowning man or someone with a bone lodged in their throat.
I know some of my deific dysphoria is because my relationship with nancy is over. It was so fundamentally magical, it was the most tangible expression of the devine in my life, that it's extinction makes everything I associated with it more doubtful and questionable than it would have been without it. It's failure impeach the gods I attibuted it to.
The central mechanic of the story is about a pilgrimage, which seems painfully apt in my current anecclesial condition. I think our modern society could use more pilgrimage, it seemed so essential to earlier incarnations of civilzation that I suspect it touches on something fundamental to the human condition. Hell, say the word "pilgrim" and the first thing that pops into most people's head is John Wayne. I tend to do a lot of pilgrimages, it is probably the most sacred experience I can reliably evoke.
I figured out a problem nancy had been having and sent her a joebot explaining it, and while I was reading in my prefered location she replied with a few phrases that, when I came back, evoked an increadible wave of memory and sadness. They were so familiar and tied into to so many memoryies. I went to lie down (it being bedish time) and found myself crying at the loss of my marriage. I think I was crying. My eyes were full of tears, and I was gasping in wracking sobs, but not making much of any noise, not quite able to let the pain and sadness come through to the point of sound from my throat. I felt a bit like a drowning man or someone with a bone lodged in their throat.
I know some of my deific dysphoria is because my relationship with nancy is over. It was so fundamentally magical, it was the most tangible expression of the devine in my life, that it's extinction makes everything I associated with it more doubtful and questionable than it would have been without it. It's failure impeach the gods I attibuted it to.
