*This is an unburdening post with horrible, shocking information, so, really, please do feel free to skip it. I don't want to know these facts, so I totally understand if you don't either. I will go back to posting normal stuff after this. I hope. I love normal.*
I have been planning a post on the subject: Posterity, what did it ever do for us? As much as this blog is not proof of it, I do like to use it as a place to document not just momentous, dramatic stuff, but also the minutiae. I love details. I wallow in them. This alternative me would record the price of bus tickets, the type of scones they have in the local cafes, (cakey or rubbery?) the dinners I make, the things my nephew and niece are up to, what they say, the games they like, our dopey running jokes. This stuff seems so mundane in the moment, but years later so poignant and fascinating. In reality, however, I am too lazy to be that obsessive. (Collective sigh of relief.) But. But. Some events have to be recorded here, not so much so they can be processed, but because otherwise they get in the way; I can't write anything at all. And the whole thing becomes pointless and grinds to a halt.
You know how people talk about the spiral when a tragic thing happens, whether it's an illness, a crime or an accident? At the very centre of it is the person immediately affected, surrounded by her family and close friends, then come less close friends, distant family, work colleagues, acquaintances, old school friends you don't see much, people you know to say hello to and finally, on the outer edge, people who know some of the affected family, say, through a meet-up group. That's me, in this case, on the edge. It's not at all even remotely about me, but I am still thrown by it. I feel like I have to reconfigure my ideas about our safety in our society, about alertness to danger and the presumed benignity of the universe. It cannot be rationalised. And if I feel like this, I dread to think what it is like at the centre of the spiral.
At the centre is a mother who was recently killed by her son, my friend's brother. And this is where words fail me, it's just so awful. That our gentle and lovely meet-up friend should have experienced such a thing, and should have to live with that reality for ever now, and have lost such a central part of her life, is unthinkable.
Sorry for unburdening, everyone. I agonized over telling another meet-up friend I see quite often, but in the end I felt I had to. I couldn't meet her and not say it. It is simply the truth, sadly. We planned how we'd reach out to our friend in a while. [Advice welcome btw. Hard to know exactly what the right thing to do is, but we definitely don't want her to feel abandoned by us.]
Thank you for listening. I love my blog. [*Embraces keyboard and monitor, somewhat awkwardly.*]
Okay! I am going into the house to have lunch and maybe do some yoga. This online yoga is always very cheering: they say things like: Ground your thighs enthusiastically and Spread your toes joyfully into the earth intoned in the manner of a hack actor playing Moses, but so sweetly and sincerely, that it is also genuinely hopeful and endearing.
Talk soon, I hope on a less sombre matter.
Be well, all.