juushika

Title: A Different Light
Author: Elizabeth A. Lynn
Published: New York: Ace, 2000 (1978)
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 183
Total Page Count: 130,685
Text Number: 382
Read Because: fan of the author/discussed by Jo Walton, borrowed from century_eyes
Review: In an age when disease has been all but eradicated, Jimson has cancer. If he stays on New Terrian, it can be treated; if he makes a faster-than-light jump through the Hype, he can visit new worlds and rediscover old lovers, but the cancer will metastasize and kill him. A Different Light is a looseknit travelogue composed of small, vivid details rendered in Lynn's deceptively terse style, seemingly undirected but with a distinct focus: the nature of one man's identity as formed by his relationships, his body, his mind, and his choices—the persistence of self for a man whose self is especially limited by the standards of his society. It's an uneven effort: forgettable plot, Lynn's brevity fails to invoke Jimson's identity as artist, the worldbuilding is both patchy and heavy-handed; it's also a dense and intensely thoughtful little book. Lynn writes racial and sexual diversity with grace; Jimson's illness is not so deftly handled, but his mortality and social isolation is convincing—and so while his attempts to achieve persistence are often disposable, the desire which motivates them resonates. There are stronger and more successful books, and while this has many of Lynn's trademarks it is not her best, but A Different Light lingered with me, if more for the thoughts it has than the actions it commits, and in that regard I consider it a success and recommend it.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.


And from my 2016 reread:

Jimson suddenly understood an effect of the custom which prohibited personal questions. You could never demand intimacy—you could only volunteer it. To know another person you had to make yourself vulnerable to her.

#of the Lynn I've read (nts: read more Lynn) A Different Light is the book in which I am least invested #but my favorite thing in all her books is how characters and societies navigate interpersonal dynamics #Kel inviting Kerris not to break but to overturn social taboos both of incest and of monogamy #in a way cognizant of but entirely uncowed by those taboos #(in The Dancers of Arun) #Jimson both repressed and liberated by the conventions of privacy and learning how to operate within them to form new relationships #varied dynamic healthy forgiving motivating relationships that expand him as much as his search of the stars expands him #(here in A Different Light) #the fluid free love in all of her work which leans towards idealistic wish-fulfillment but is ultimately a wish that NEEDS to be fulfilled #because of the way it defies monogamy and heteronormativity #opens up new dynamics and normalizes queer relationships and allows diversity to be simply taken for granted #published 40 years ago and this STILL feels defiant and liberated #nts: read ALL the Lynn she is so amazing

Title: Lilith
Author: George MacDonald
Published: Project Gutenberg, 2013; New York: Dod, Mead & Co., 1895
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 213
Total Page Count: 126,703
Text Number: 368
Read Because: fan of the author, e-book from Project Gutenberg
Review: Following a phantom, an average man is pulled into a strange world—one ephemeral and magical, where issues of salvation are not theoretical but are instead a literal battle and quest. Lilith is a direct allegory of Christian Universalist salvation, laid atop strange magics and stranger symbolism. Over landscapes effervescent and transcendent, shadowed and looming, the beginning of the book is more of a ramble than a journey; at his best MacDonald is deeply evocative, and while the book's internal mythos can be arbitrary it is just as often inspired and provoking. But as the book continues and develops direction, it sours. I love the compelling and flawed characters, but often felt as if I wasn't intended to: Lilith's desire for self-determination is sympathetic and inspiring, and then roundly condemned. The book's unique and delicate internal mythos is occasionally at conflict with and often trampled by the appearance of literal Christian figures and messages.

Lilith ends with the same beautiful imprecision with which it begins, which salvages some things. I admire MacDonald, and parts of this book are captivating; I even enjoy it thematically. But this is story made slave to allegory, and while it is somewhat too subtle to be preachy and works in bits and pieces—the fantastic landscape, the larger-than-life characters, the echoing of damnation and salvation in the threat and beauty of the setting—it crumbles as a whole. It pains me to rate this book relatively low, but it simply never clicked for me; I much prefer The Golden Key for its more delicate, less precise balance of the fantastic and symbolic, and I don't recommend Lilith.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

But I do offer, for everyone I know that has ever loved trompe l'oeil or hidden rooms or libraries and books (*cough* century_eyes *cough*):

In one of the walls was the low, narrow door of a closet, containing some of the oldest and rarest of the books. It was a very thick door, with a projecting frame, and it had been the fancy of some ancestor to cross it with shallow shelves, filled with book-backs only. The harmless trick may be excused by the fact that the titles on the sham backs were either humorously original, or those of books lost beyond hope of recovery. I had a great liking for the masked door.

To complete the illusion of it, some inventive workman apparently had shoved in, on the top of one of the rows, a part of a volume thin enough to lie between it and the bottom of the next shelf: he had cut away diagonally a considerable portion, and fixed the remnant with one of its open corners projecting beyond the book-backs. The binding of the mutilated volume was limp vellum, and one could open the corner far enough to see that it was manuscript upon parchment.

—Lilith, George MacDonald, 7

So we're installing this in the house ... tomorrow? Please?

Mama just had her initial vet visit! She got a microchip and flea treatment and rabies/distemper vaccines; she is also FIV/FeLV negative; she's in fantastic overall health, at a good weight, no ear mites, good heart and insides and yay. This is the best of all possible outcomes, and she was even good at the vet—skittish, happiest if mostly covered by a towel, but surprisingly calm and not at all aggressive.

I've provided bits and pieces of Mama's backstory, but now that Dee's adopted her we've heard a bit more detail from the neighbor who was looking after Mama. ( There's still gaps in our knowledge, but as it stands... )

We're still planning to do a two month quarantine, like we did for Gillian. Gillian had a possible (but unlikely) previous injury when we first found him, so there was a bit more concern about incubating viruses; Mamakitty isn't at such high risk, but a two month quarantine will give her, as it did Gillian, lots of time to bond with us, explore the house without interacting with other cats, and learn August and Gillian's scent. Gillian's introduction to August was largely drama-free, and I think his quarantine contributed to that. Hopefully it'll have the same positive effect on Mamakitty.

Dee'll buy a FURminator soon and I can begin the gleeful process of taming Mama's crazy fur; she also has a few mats that need trimmed out. The vet trimmed her nails; we'll want to upkeep that if at all possible.

Mama has been doing beautifully in the bathroom. She prefers to hide under things—the bench, the towel rack: low-down, covered safe dens. But she comes out for pettings, and she's learning to put most of her body in a lap so she can purr and drool and cover your nice black clothes with calico fur. So far she's been quiet and relatively uninterested in leaving the one room; this may be subject to change as she adapts.

All in all, healthy safe happy cat who will continue to be one. This is the best news.

Title: The Dancers of Arun (The Chronicles of Tornor Book 2)
Author: Elizabeth A. Lynn
Published: New York: Ace Trade, 2000 (1979)
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 245
Total Page Count: 125,603
Text Number: 363
Read Because: recommended by century_eyes, borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Crippled as a child, Kerris lives in Tornor Keep and trains as a scribe. But he's long had an unusual psychic link to his older brother Kel—and one day Kel comes to him and offers to take him away with his chearis, a group of dancing warriors. The Dancers of Arun is a distant, indirect sequel to Watchtower, and each book stands alone; it's similar to its predecessor in all the best ways, and improves on some of that book's flaws. Characters and their relationships star, with plot serving only as a vehicle towards character growth (the plot here is both more local and unique than in Watchtower). Kerris is a superb protagonist, a convincing young adult—immature but not petty, with distinct potential for growth—whose disability is important but not exploited. Unusual, intriguing, and beautifully rendered relationships abound: Lynn violates almost every heteronormative expectation without fetishizing the violations, and the emotional landscape that grows around Kerris is varied and vibrant, ranging from friendship to romance, from a chosen family of intimate friends to joyful polyamory; there's enough situational difficulty and character depth that it doesn't read as a wish-fulfillment fantasy. Lynn's prose remains somewhat stilted, and while functional the plot is far from memorable. But this is what my id is full of—troubled characters, complex emotions, unusual and lovely interactions—and so I find it hard to view The Dancers of Arun objectively and I certainly don't mind its flaws. I recommend it enthusiastically to any reader that shares a similar interest in character and relationship.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

(phoenixfalls you should totally still read Watchtower if/when you get around to it—but this book? read it someday? soon? please yes good do it do it DO IT. Seriously though, this is a lot of the tropes we've been talking about, packed densely into one beautiful place. Also: polyamory.)

Devon came up a few days before Christmas. Dee and Odi were out of town, with her family up in Washington (honestly an awesome mini-gift to an incredible introvert like me); Devon brought with him a van full of things: 1) A TV to replace the living room TV; it's bigger and has a better screen, and Halo 4 thanks me. Devon just replaced his TV with one that's better suited to function as a monitor, so his castoff is my gain. 2) A new harddrive for the PS3, which had a near-unusable 40 gig drive; it's now 120, so there's breathing room for games. This one is explicitly a gift for Dee, because the PS3 is her primary console; now every install won't require an equal and opposite uninstall. 3) One of the big black bookshelves which was in his room, so the books that were in the corner of my room piled to near my height (the last of my books in storage in Devon's parents's garage) are now instead crowding a bookshelf. I also sorted more of my boxes-that-needed-sorting while he was here, and my room—while not perfect—now feels remarkably less crowded and much more me, bless.

Awaiting Devon when he got here was 4) My new computer case, a SilverStone Fortress in titanium. I've had my old case for about a decade, and while the guts are up to date the case was old and dented and ugly and had small and exceedingly noisy fans; this one is tall and clean and quiet. Also 5) A new keyboard to (finally) replace the one that August broke.

August used to love to sit on my old computer tower; the new one has vertical ventilation, so the entire top is a vent and can't have a cat butt upon it. Because she is my cat, August has shown zero interest in sitting on the new tower; I have, instead, found her on the new bookcase at two in the morning, walking on top of a row of mass-market paperbacks and occasionally, intentionally, knocking one of them to the ground.

These were a lot of big things, not surprises (I need some of my gifts to be surprises in order for me to get into a holiday spirit, but my Hanukkah gift was so that was sorted), but sorely needed. Everything they replace met a bare minimum of functionality, but the bare minimum was not horribly satisfying.

Also awaiting Devon was his Christmas gift, Beats Pro in black. Not a surprise (his gifts rarely are, as it's his money that buys them p.s. wouldn't you love to have me as a partner), but he likes them. They sound awesome.

Dee came back early on the 26th; my family came up for an early dinner and more gifts that evening; Devon left that night. My sister gave me a beautiful burnt orange knit throw which I am pleased to claim as For Personal Use Only (No Cats Allowed), which is nice because August has coopted every other soft thing in the entire house); my parents gave me a number of indulgent consumables and some baking supplies and significant monies. My mother's parents sent me The Dark Wife and Moonwise, both of which I'm happy to have but never expected to get—normally people read the blurbs of my wishlist books and go nope, too weird, not buying; one of these is a lesbian Greek myth retelling so guesses are Grandpa didn't read any blurbs at all but you know, I will take it. And from Dee, alongside the fingerless gloves for Hannukah: my favorite socks in three new colors yaaaay, a copy of The Night Circus which I shall immediately lend to her, and a number of new cat toys, immediately coopted by Gillian.

A good holiday all in all—busier than I like, but a quiet New Year's will balance it out. I know all of this is about material goods, but that's partially for my records and also because I am deeply material in the sense that I love stuff, I love stuff I want and love, which makes my living space usable and comfortable; I rarely if ever buy stuff, so gifts are why I have socks I want to wear and a computer I want to use. Devon likes to give gifts, not receive them, and that's a totally valid approach; I had a fantastic run of gifts-given this year, but at my heart I am a recipient, and gifts to me mean love and holidays and family. And this year, I had all of that.

Today I broke down and scrubbed out Kuzco's cage and accoutrements, and we went to the Oregon Humane Society to donate his belongings and have his body cremated. I didn't opt for a private cremation (where the ashes would be returned to me) because that wouldn't help me with my grieving. The person that dealt with us referred to this as letting them take care of everything, which was an incredibly thoughtful way of putting it—one that doesn't imply a lack of care by the owner or indicate a lack of care given to the body, but instead says that they will willing bear the responsibility of caring for his remains. They happily accepted all of Kuzco's things, including opened bags of bedding/pellets/hay, which I'd worried they wouldn't be able to take; she said they appreciated the donations, and I imagine small animal-related donations are particularly rare. I'm glad that stuff will be put to good use, as it's great quality and shouldn't just be thrown away. All in all, the best experience that I could have asked for; they were immensely understanding and kind.

They were in the midst of a number of events, including a Home for the Holidays general adoption sale, so the place was bustling. After dealing with Kuzco's remains, Dee and I walked over to look at the cats and dogs up for adoption and it was basically the best way to ... counteract things, I guess. There were adorable kittens being stupidly adorable, and sweet older dogs who let us give them cuddles through the bars, and there's no much better in the world than a bunch of animals finding homes, so.

I'm doing okay. Today wasn't easy, but having it done helps. And there's no regret in it, none—the pain of loss doesn't make me wish for a moment that I hadn't had him for seven pig-filled years, first; him, or the rest of the herd. And stupid adorable kittens and a golden retriever finding a home is good reminder of that.

Last Sunday Devon made a daytrip up to Portland so we could all carve pumpkins, as we did last year. We went to the local Kruger farm stand about five blocks away and picked out locally-grown pumpkins, then ordered food from the Che Cafe food cart; we waited for our food in a covered dining area while rain fell and the blue breeze blew in woodfire smoke from the firepit. It was a distinctly Portland weekend before Halloween, wet but mild, rich with the scent of rain and smoke and leaves.

We ate our food at home—mac 'n cheese and sandwich and fries and a thick quasadilla—and carved pumpkins while I blasted The Nightmare Before Christmas from another room (I don't listen to the soundtrack, I just put the film on and ignore the visuals).

From left to right: Devon's, mine, Dee's.



( Daylight closeup. )

Mine this year was inspired by the scarecrow in Sleepy Hollow—I made the face too small, but when lit up it really didn't matter.

Today I pulled on a long black skirt in satin and velvet and a purple half-sweater with flowy sleeves, and was something witchy or at least dressed up. I played Animal Crossing and answered the door to a dozen or so trick or treaters while Dee baked pumpkin cookies. Odi barked at every single visitor, but did just fine. I will love you and shower candy upon you if you are wearing a costume—I don't care if it's super fancy, I don't care if you're "too old," if you embrace the spirit of the holiday then my candy is yours. If you are seventeen and wearing the clothes you wore to school that day, I judge you. If you fourteen and smoking a cigar while trick or fucking treating I will not give a shit about candy but I will feel deeply unclean. (The polite adorably-costumed group of six that came near the end of the night erased lingering ick, but really? I mean really?)

Quiet little day. I never do as much with Halloween as I wish, yet did enjoy this one—and in a way, this day only begins the haunting season, for me. November all is death and decay—it's the beginning of the year, but the year begins with death, quietude, the rotting and waiting that lasts through winter. This is only the start.

Last weekend was fantastic and hugely busy. On Saturday, Dee and I made a day trip down to Corvallis. We brought Odi to board the day in grandparents's outdoor dog kennel, and went with Devon and my family (parents and sister) to the Fall Festival, an outdoor fair of local artists. I usually go just with my father, or sometimes with my sister as well; having such a large group was a bit like herding cats (oh, the yelled cell phone conversations), but it was also lovely. The weather held at mostly sunny but not hot, my parents bought some metal work for the garden, and I got to show off one of my favorite artists, Cameron Kaseberg. When we were done with the booths, we split up and Devon, Dee, and I went across the street to the library book sale, where everything was half price for the end of the day; I am absolutely drowning in books over here, but I still managed to find Dracula, some Atwood and Woolf, and a Southern Gothic novel of questionable potential for $6, and who can say no to that. Then we went out to a delightful dinner.

Back at Devon's grandparents's house we discovered that—true story—as soon as we'd left, Odi had managed to pull up the chain link sides to the kennel, wriggle underneath, and follow Devon's scent trail across the yard and back to Devon's house, where he had found Devon's father and invited himself inside and spent the day gorging on found bags of cat food and playing. We're exceedingly lucky that he wasn't hurt in the escape and that he immediately found a safe place to go (as a one-eyed dog he's pretty identifiable, so Devon's folks recognized him), but: WHUT.

On Sunday, Dee and I took the bus to Hawthorne—one of my old Portland stomping grounds out in SE—for the Under Wildwood release party. The Wildwood Chronicles take place in St. Johns (our neighborhood here in Portland) and the vast park visible from the neighborhood; at the release party we got a pre-release signed copy of the second book in the series, and the author and illustrator did a joint talk which was all about the book as a collaboration—their joint approach to creating its world, and then exploring it in their respective mediums as author and illustrator. Afterward, we went to an early dinner at Chez Machin—I'd never had savory crêpes, and they make theirs with chewy robust buckwheat; mine was filled with mozzarella, mushrooms, and tomatoes, and topped with a pesto sauce. I'm an extremely picky eater, mostly in regards to texture and new foods, so it was a bit of a risk but a complete success: A+, would love to eat again.

On one hand this is exactly what I want of autumn: more to do, more desire to do it, the delicious exhaustion and enthusiastic downtime that follows having done it. That said, we noticed this week that Kuzco has been having some troubles eating: he lost a top incisor a bit ago, which is totally normal, but I think he lost this one way down at the root and the root got infected. It's just broken through, so he's probably fine, but he's lost a bit of weight in the meantime and the infection may still linger. He has a vet appointment tomorrow just to make sure he's fine, but here's the thing: Kuz is 7 years old, and guinea pigs live between 5 and 8 years. He's developed a cataract in one eye; when he's eating well (which is usually) he gets rotund but the weight is all in his tummy—he's never been a very plump pig, but he's on the bonier side now. What I'm saying is that he's an old man, the last of his herd. This tooth issue is probably unrelated to aging, but it sort of makes his mortality hit home. I'm not dreading or even anticipating his death—Kuzco has had a good life, and he can stick around for as much more of it as fate determines—but this comes while we have a cat in limbo and while I just feel ... exhausted.

It's money issues (even if Devon doesn't seem to think there ... are any), it's fear of commitment and responsibility, it's general exhaustion and the need for some downtime. Two weeks ago I was exhausted and went to escape in Corvallis, and spent the whole time having an extended nervous breakdown. Then there was cat, then there was social stuff, now Kuzco, and I haven't showered in a couple of days and when I'm not surfeited with distraction (making stars while watching a show, reading a book while watching video games) I'm on the verge of a crying jag.

Gillian is fine! He managed to groom the section that he had groomed to the skin, so that's still healing, but most all of his scabs have flaked off and he's no longer vibrating with itchy frustration. No other health problems, he's on the second half of his preventative medication course, and really the only thing he hates is being trapped in one room. I'm just having a hard time bonding, because right now I don't see "cat I love"—I see "ongoing responsibility and monetary investment." That's selfish, and it doesn't mean I don't love him, but it's a connotation I can't shake right now.

If sleep were easier (not having nightmares, just sleeping restlessly), I'd want to sleep for a week. Devon wants me to come back to Corvallis for another try at downtime, but it depends on what Kuzco's vet visit turns up. I just wish there were an off button for the world, or for me.

There was a brief heatwave here in the Pacific Northwest—we had a day each of 104, then 94, then 84 degrees. Last night I slept like shit (normal pain and nightmare* shit as opposed to "it's one in the morning why is it 90 degrees in the house" shit), woke at 3a. The room was deep and cold; I used my hotpad and watched Dark Shadows 214, the episode where Victoria encounters Barnabas in the Old House and he tells her about its building, its imported chandler and handpicked wallpaper and how so well built a house will last forever—and, as such, forever carry the memories of the evil that happened within. At its best, Dark Shadows is delightful: pulpy and compulsively watchable on account of its genre and episode length, but steeped in gothic, both its bombast and it's emotional resonance—and what's more gothic than a decrepit, beautiful, remarkable New England house? (Well one in England-England, I suppose.)

I guess what I'm saying is can it be autumn now please.

No—but the break in the weather is a blessing. At the dog park this afternoon it was overcast and then a cool breeze came through; so overcast I could go in short sleeves, so cool it raised goosebumps on my arms. We never thought, when we started taking Odi to the dog park, that we would get to know these dogs and sometimes their people so well. There's a cast of regulars that we see almost every time we go, and it forms a safe bubble of dogs we know and people we trust, so we don't have to watch Odi with such an eagle eye and we can give other dogs basic commands. Neither did I imagine that I would have the opportunity to know so many dogs so well—and there are fewer pleasures that compare to throwing a ball for a really enthusiastic dog, or having someone else's dog come up to you to say "love me and touch me all over and make me think you might let me go home with you."

But I'm writing this because I'm feeling a bit ... emotional, and emotionally conflicted, I suppose. I've had one eye on the Readercon controversy, which dredged up a few days of "everyone sucks and sexism is everywhere and fuck the world" about the time that Woof died so really, fuck the whole and entire world; and then in a single day Readercon resolved that controversy with aplomb and Britain won some awesome gold medals in the Olympics and Curiosity landed, and people weren't shit, they were beautiful and they did good and awesome things. But this afternoon and evening I was thinking back over my experiences in therapy (for reasons), which I didn't notice until a few hours in was hugely triggering because wow, who'da thunk that thinking about the time I was ill enough to be in therapy could possibly be upsetting. Meanwhile it was hot and I was miserable, and then Dee and I spent a day in St. Johns to avoid much of the heat and we did Starbucks and book browsing and dinner and it was fantastic, and then the heat broke and the natural world was both tolerable and occasionally beautiful. It's all a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, a small and creaky one and not the high-tech wonder of the themepark, but still enough to make me nauseous.

I know that I will never be completely mentally well, and yet I always feel a little surprised when a bit of mental ick slaps me upside the head. This isn't even a major brainmeats malfunction—I'm pretty much coming out of my major depressive episode, fingers crossed and knock on wood. It's just ... me: sensitive and melancholy, and therefore too emotional receptive or at least thirsty for the opposite, and strangely confused by the whole thing. It's been years and years of this, dear me; it's been pretty much all of a lifetime: these feelings shouldn't come as a surprise. But they do.

At this point, for what it's worth, I'm doing okay with Woof's death. I took a few days off of going to the dog park because the thought was too painful, but on the whole this is a low-impact death, which is to say that it's not sudden and it was clearly her time. I'm moving on; now, the dogs at the dog park are a joy. We'll see if I feel the same whenever I make it back to Corvallis, but. Yeah. Today I threw balls for a Miniature Pincher and snuggled Alfie, this little Chihuahua (uh ... mix? I'm unsure) who isn't trying to be a big dog, he is a big dog in a little body. Love is always a dog.

* Conscripted into an largescale assassination squad—by which I mean: tactical nuclear devices. The real irony is that murdering hundreds and thousands of people, and the mental stress of being put in a situation where I was expected to do so, made for a distinctly unpleasant but not unbearable dream, whereas going back to school is pretty much my nightmare of nightmares.

Yesterday night, Dee, Devon, and I saw Florence + the Machine.

I saw Florence + the Machine.

I cannot overstate the importance of this music in my life; it is how I became friends with Dee and why I live here now and a vast part of how I aim to live at all; her first album means the world to me, and Dog Days are Over is one of my formative songs. I've written about her too many times (1, 2, 3). I never got to see her first tour (but I have a shirt! Dee got it for me, and it is heather gray and orangey-pink and literally the worst thing for my complexion, and I love it to pieces), but I got to see this one.

I've been doing a fair bit better lately in the realm of depression and back pain, but we've had a few busy days and when Devon is here my defenses all drop and I tend to dredge up lingering ick, hoping, perhaps, that he can cure it. I was tired and couldn't find the shirt I wanted to wear and we got there almost but not quite lateish and had seats in the far back with almost no visibility and they were out of chocolate ice cream and I worried—I worried hard—that this event that I had looked forward to for so long and needed so badly to be Important, as important to me as her music , would be an opportunity lost to my incredible potential for melancholy.

And when she came on stage the whole audience stood and I, at just over 5 feet, could see nothing over the sea of heads; not an inch of the stage.

But Florence is not music for missing out—not just because I love it but because it is about living life with spirit and abandon and foolishness and love and the whole of your heart. I put on my shoes, and Devon and I made a loop out through the back, through the food court, and in towards the heart of the audience. And when the stage came into view and I could actually see Florence, blue and red and glowing against the stage, I burst into tears.

Most of the audience stayed standing through the entire show, and what had been precious space became almost abundant, and we shared breathing room with strangers and found a place at the tail end of the truly enthusiastic, foot-of-the-stage crowd. I haven't actually been hugely fond of Ceremonials so far, but—again, I always do this with F+tM—I heard each song as if for the first time, and all of them said that that was exactly where I needed to be: not feeling despondent in the back, but watching and raising my hands towards hers and singing along to Dog Days in the same full-throated voice she taught me.

F+tM songs are two things: whole-hearted euphoria and fear. They are dedication and failure, they are giving yourself over and being terrified of the thought. In the same way that Stephen Dedalus's epiphanies contradict one another without losing one whit of their individual truth, there's nothing hypocritical in the fact that you can swear to live life fully in one breath and then cry with the next. One is the price we pay for the other; we are our own human sacrifices, raised up, offered to the sky.

I live in the moment, and too easily forget one half for the other. These last few months haven't been difficult so much as they've been a vague and endless Swamps of Sadness, and I can get immured there and forget that I have seen glimpses of the other side. But I was there, yesterday, in the crowd, and I have been reminded.

And I am so, so thankful.

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back
So shake him off