Funny how every Christmas seems more and more haunted. I understand Dickens. If not love him- he's actually my second least favorite English author. After D H Lawrence (I've read most of his works, and just cannot enjoy any of them- ditto Thomas Hardy- he makes me want to open a vein).
Anyway, we are driving around the state, and almost every place I look I am haunted by something- whether it's a place, a person, a memory, or just a feeling. We go to Bozeman, and I see images of my past there. We go to Missoula, and I see what it was like in the spring, when I was much younger. We go to Helena, and I see what's missing and been replaced on the streets I drive. I see the faces of the dead. I hear their laughter. I feel their absence. It's kind of hard to process- needs time.
Coming home to this place- where it smells of green- even in the winter- is a welcome relief after the onslaught of memory. Too much memory in too short of a time. It starts to hurt. But it also feels so damned good at the same time. Like I could slip down into the current of it and be bourne away on the warm water. But the fear is that that same warm water is nothing more than some kind of Freudian raw sewage.
So back in the green place. Where I can contemplate it all at more of a distance. And worry it less. And love it more. Detached only in theory. Does a place ever get its hooks out of your flesh?
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2 comments:
Oh man, do I ever know what you mean. It's the same for me when I go to Kalispell. You put it very well.
Very glad to know that it's not just me wallowing in this. I think the only ones immune are still in the thick of it. Or are generally obtuse to begin with.
Glad you're home. Let's chat when you get the chance!
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