tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7513873611479966923.post2543709091879254833..comments2023-04-25T16:33:01.342-07:00Comments on the sword that speaks: OrbitsAnne Carly Abadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16178146088085962148noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7513873611479966923.post-65674549431929939192010-09-14T22:34:46.155-07:002010-09-14T22:34:46.155-07:00That was beautiful, Ma'am Rowena. Yes, sometim...That was beautiful, Ma'am Rowena. Yes, sometimes we strain our ears to hear the echo. But we might be missing the voices of others as well, which I think I tend to do when I am fixated on my sadness.Anne Carly Abadhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16178146088085962148noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7513873611479966923.post-58635320391111136702010-09-12T13:52:51.372-07:002010-09-12T13:52:51.372-07:00As a 5-year-old, and onward, I'd be hit with w...As a 5-year-old, and onward, I'd be hit with what I'd call "the gray Sunday afternoon" sadness: dread of the coming week, fear of separation from my parents, nameless guilts. Reaching menarche gave me confidence that the body had its reliable continuities, and I also purposively "remade" my self-image, as only a naive adolescent can dare do; the transformation (illusory as it may have been) from fearful child to self-confident adult stood my in good stead from then on. I also arrived at the realization that those inchoate but real apprehensions -- melancholia, as the Romantic poets called the condition -- were the font of my writing: I had to talk to myself to fill the gray chasms. That's why we write, Anne: to throw our voices across the abyss, and hear the echo...or perhaps the voice of another, if one is lucky.Anonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13982342541736457702noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7513873611479966923.post-36360050287329748072010-09-10T19:06:08.093-07:002010-09-10T19:06:08.093-07:00That's true, Les, that's why even if our b...That's true, Les, that's why even if our being artists makes us sometimes too sensitive, I wouldn't trade it for anything else. :DAnne Carly Abadhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16178146088085962148noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7513873611479966923.post-37223914867190642172010-09-10T18:44:15.303-07:002010-09-10T18:44:15.303-07:00sadness also passes. but knowing how you feel when...sadness also passes. but knowing how you feel when you feel it counts for a lot. i was also inexplicably sad for many years when i was younger, so i can relate with what you wrote. i guess one of the gifts of being a writer or artist is that one can at least transform the sadness into beauty... :)Leshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05631745156754849690noreply@blogger.com