if you close the door, the night could last forever
griefbacon.substack.com
this is last week’s griefbacon, which you may have noticed didn’t arrive last week. I wrote most of it and then felt unsure about sending it. it’s about michael, and about brazenhead, and I’d already written about that in the last one, and I worried I was writing about all this too much. I never wrote about Brazenhead back when I actually spent time there, even though I always, always, always wanted to write about it. I thought that if I somehow got it wrong, I would reveal that I had never belonged in the first place, that I was not good enough or cool enough, smart enough or rigorous enough, and I would be found out, and never allowed back. This was the same reason, or one of them, that I didn’t go to Brazenhead often enough in more recent years, why I refused invitations to parties I should have attended, sometimes didn’t answer Michael’s texts, cancelled plans. I let my fears of my own insufficiencies, the shame I sometimes feel at my own rampant sentimentality, be the reason for not loving this place and this person as hard as I might have loved them. Anyway, I’m writing about it now, again.
if you close the door, the night could last forever
if you close the door, the night could last…
if you close the door, the night could last forever
this is last week’s griefbacon, which you may have noticed didn’t arrive last week. I wrote most of it and then felt unsure about sending it. it’s about michael, and about brazenhead, and I’d already written about that in the last one, and I worried I was writing about all this too much. I never wrote about Brazenhead back when I actually spent time there, even though I always, always, always wanted to write about it. I thought that if I somehow got it wrong, I would reveal that I had never belonged in the first place, that I was not good enough or cool enough, smart enough or rigorous enough, and I would be found out, and never allowed back. This was the same reason, or one of them, that I didn’t go to Brazenhead often enough in more recent years, why I refused invitations to parties I should have attended, sometimes didn’t answer Michael’s texts, cancelled plans. I let my fears of my own insufficiencies, the shame I sometimes feel at my own rampant sentimentality, be the reason for not loving this place and this person as hard as I might have loved them. Anyway, I’m writing about it now, again.