100 Points to Rickman for lives forever touched

Where I was: On the train, trying to get a busybody out of my ears. It changed to trying to prove this was a hoax pretty fast—but, the source? NPR. Pretty reliable.

The plan was to entertain myself with the newsfeed during the commute. Instead I found out that we have lost Alan Rickman to—excuse me while I curse the sky—cancer.

I was introduced to his work through the irreverent Dogma, and seeing him in serious roles (MR. Potter…”) was something of an adjustment. The man’s range was incredible, from the almost despotic to serious that bordered on silly.

And now he’s gone.

I’ll say it again:

Fuck cancer.

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Never forget the—ehhh who am I kidding, I forgot

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One of the things that I keep forgetting to do is to get the ink in my printer refilled.

This is *really* ironic because not only am I smack dab in the middle of a draft, there’s another project in the back of my head that basically requires working printer ink and glossy paper.

After four days of attempting to contort myself sufficently enough to kick myself for forgetting to write it down I remembered that I remember things much better if I can look at them at the same time—this being why, at work when suddenly something is changed, I’m very likely to bust out the phone to take a picture of the changes and study it. Back when I didn’t have a phone that could do this would take notes on literally every detail, sometimes in the shape of the detail.

Yes, I got made fun of at work for this… But I got things right.

And now here’s the note to get ink just like at work…

Because when I took this shot I realized I’m also out of paper.

Impasse

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I am at a point in time where there are things I am thinking about, hard.

There are things I miss, things that I cannot give voice for the fear of dismissal from the one who it would actually (…?) matter to. The constant thought of it just makes me feel like I should just be done with the whole thing.

I miss feeling that deep, spiritual connection with things. People ridicule this feeling, but it has always, always been a part of my life. Even when I didn’t feel a connection to any specific tradition or denomination, I felt the need to feel connected to something.

And it is hard to shake off the feeling that something is wrong with everything when the person who I’m spending so much of my time on it… well, doesn’t.

Confession time—for a long time in my life, I wanted to be a priest.

(No comments from the peanut gallery on how that might be influencing my writing.)

I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking, “this is it,” until I found out that only men could. Turns out that you lose your religion fast when you find out you aren’t welcome where you want to be.

I’ve since found ways to get that deep connection, but… what does one do when your other thinks it’s bunk? Not necessarily the practice, but the entire concept?

I miss being able to share that part of my life. And the more I think about how I’ve had to keep it quiet from, well everyone, the more isolated it feels.

It influences everything. It contributes to how I enjoy the things that I do. To be met with a roll of the eyes—or, in the case of family, “you’re going to Hell”—to call this deflating would be putting it lightly, but I don’t have a word for what it does.

I have things to think about, and I don’t know where they’re going.