Impractical Cats

Could there be an hourglass in which time runs in the opposite direction?

  • 19th October
    2011
  • 19

part of why i’m not sure if i want to have children

As the two-year mark of my father’s death approaches, I have Joan Didion’s new memoir to look forward to. The Year of Magical Thinking helped me so much, although her sorrow was so spare and sharp, while mine raged and drifted like a current. Via New York Magazine:

The ways in which neither we nor they can bear to contemplate the death or the illness or even the aging of the other. As the pages progressed it occurred to me that their actual subject was not children after all, at least not children per se, at least not children qua children: their actual subject was this refusal even to engage in such contemplation, this failure to confront the certainties of aging, illness, death. This fear. Only as the pages progressed further did I understand that the two subjects were the same. When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children.  - Joan Didion, Blue Nights

 After reading that excerpt, I was nagged by having read or watched something similar recently, that struck a chord. Then I realized it was from watching the movie version of Stephen King’s “Christine” (directed by John Carpenter). The protagonist, a troubled, nerdy teen says:

I think that part of being a parent is trying to kill your kids…Because as soon as you have a kid, you know for sure that you’re going to die. When you have a kid, you see your own gravestone….If being a kid is about learning how to live, then being a grown-up is about learning how to die.

  • 11th January
    2010
  • 11
  • 23rd December
    2009
  • 23

Every year it’s the same. Every year we buy presents and spend too much money and lose our minds while losing sight of what really matters. We grow up and grow bitter and let ourselves forget that at the end of the day we’re all packing and traveling and gift-giving because of the people in our lives that we love. We’re driven by the hopeful idea that something small, like an old recording of a concert, can bring a family together. We say “as soon as,” and “next time,” and “maybe next year,” when we know we shouldn’t be wasting another minute. We stop believing—in people and the innocence of youth—and become accustomed to coming home to certain things that once are gone leave holes in our hearts nothing can ever repair.

They say you can’t go home again, but we all keep going home every year to a place that constantly changes, a place that means different things to each of us in different parts of our lives. There is a lot we can’t control, but it is those repetitive things that we cling to that mean so much more than we oftentimes allow ourselves to admit.

  • 17th November
    2009
  • 17
Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death.
Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking