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[personal profile] bona_fide_bletherings
'Wuthering Heights was the only novel written by Emily Bronte, which some say is just as well, and others a crying shame...whatever feelings are aroused in the reader by Heights, whether sadness for the ill-matched lovers, irritability at Catherine's petulant ways or even profound rage at how stupid Heathcliff's victims can act as they meekly line up to be abused, one thing is for sure: the evocation of a wild and windswept place that so well reflects the destructive passion of the two central characters is captured here brilliantly.

The Well of Lost Plots.

Now that Matt Smith is leaving Dr Who at Christmas, this seems like a timely point to talk about my own recent changes. While I don't think I want to chance cutting my own arm off* to see if it will regrow itself, it does feel like my body and mind is standing up to a lot of late. Health, enormous changes in my life in work and home, and opportunities to reflect on the past have had an impact. The following waffle is an attempt to make sense of it, somewhat unsuccessfully.

About a month ago, I had some long awaited laparoscopic surgery that left me reeling for a while. Happily, in the long run it should make life a lot easier, but the point at which you're deemed fully recovered and back to normal seems very indefinite. While in the middle of an especially painful afternoon when I was signed off, I went for a walk in the sunshine. Since January I've consciously avoided walking by the public park where A and I held the de-collaring. Why I kept shying away, I don't know. Something in my scar-tissue filled belly told me that on that especially lovely afternoon I should stop trying to run away from potential pain, and that I should just walk in the same damn park like everyone else. I walked under the tree which 4 months before had been a mass of bare twigs, and was then covered in beautiful white blossoms. My over-active yet inefficient imagination led me to remember how much I clung to the ideas about love in Wuthering Heights when I was a teenager. Destructive, unpredictable and often quite unsettling, but always permanent and unchanging, at least between Cathy and Healthcliff. In my teenage brain a love like the rocks that stayed constant and unchanging seemed to be the only type of love worth pursuing. The idea of a love that like the trees would change over time, and possibly even appear to be dead or dormant just didn't factor.

Similar thoughts come to me when I've seen old photos of teenage me seem to ask where did that strangely wholesome girl go?

So many things change, not least of all the type of Heathcliff that I would lust after now would be a Fforde rather than a Bronte hero, working through his issues in family-centred therapy. There would be talk of "owning his feelings", and I would only contemplate the sort of recreational violence littered through the novel with some assurance of a safe word. 

Who or what grows next is anybody's guess. I like to think I'm not a sickening 'Love is...' type romantic, and this is probably true. 

*or indeed rubbing it across a broken window pane.

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October 2014


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