Nov. 8th, 2002

incandescens: (Default)
It was amusing, today, when I got home from work. In retrospect, and after the initial shock wore off.

I opened the front door and walked in. From outside I'd seen the light shining through the curtains in the upstairs study, and assumed that my father was working up there as usual. So I called upstairs, and got a muttered response back, and thought at the time that his voice sounded slightly off, but was feeling a bit too exhausted to really bother to check. Besides, I wanted to get my shoes off. (Curse new shoes and curse their breaking in, even if they are Ecco and mostly comfortable.)

Walked into bedroom. Took shoes off, took cape off, hung jacket up. Walked back into hall. Heard sound of bicycle outside, looked through glass panes of front door, saw father on bike outside.

The moment of sheer panic and discongruity was irrational and overdone and unnecessary -- a moment's thought suggested that it had to be my mother up there instead, back unusually early, and wandering upstairs confirmed that this was the case, and we had a good laugh about it.

But -- well, I suppose I could take it as a helpful reminder of exactly what a shock like that can feel like, petty and minor as such a thing was. It's so easy to write our fictions and have the characters behaving "sensibly", or complain at the television and the cinema screen when the heroes panic and do something stupid.

It may be a salutory thing for me to get a little shock, and to remember what it feels like. ;)

Just for reference.

---

Then turning to my love I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she, she heard the violin,
And left my side and entered in:
Love passed into the House of Lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl,
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

The Harlot's House, Oscar Wilde

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