The Book of Love
Mar. 6th, 2013 03:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intheheartTitle: The Book of Love
Rating: PG
Summary: Joanna in ten songs.
Warnings: mentions of child neglect.
Notes: Hurray for mixes!
Girl Disappearing - Tori Amos
A girl disappearing
To some secret prison
But she's right in front of me
A girl disappearing
Joanna wanted to disappear.
Everything was all right when she was little, when Mema and Baba liked each other. She could be out in the open then, a little girl running and playing like all little girls did. She could be noisy and happy and messy and Mema and Baba would just smile and say she was their own little Joanna, their own little girl.
Now there were no more smiles, no more comforting words, only shouting and twisted mouths and angry eyes.
She huddled into her covers at night and prayed for invisibility.
The Booklovers - Divine Comedy
Sir Walter Scott: We're all doomed!
Leo Tolstoy: Yes!
Honore de Balzac: Oui...
Edgar Allen Poe: Aaaarrrggghhhh!
The books became her safety.
She knew how to read before everything happened, of course, and she liked it well enough. But after everything, after life at home became cold and tense, the library became safety.
There were no shouts there, no fights. There were only the rustle of pages and the whisper of the books, the stories, a thousand escapes into a thousand lands where, if she ever got upset, she could close the book and escape.
She fell in love with books and libraries before she was even ten.
The Tower - Vienna Teng
She carries the act so convincingly
The fact is sometimes she believes it
She can be happy with the way things are
Be happy with the things she's done
She lied to herself over the years.
It wasn't a bad lie. She didn't really know afterwards how she would have gotten along without it. As long as she could believe she was all right by herself, as long as she could ignore the tiny, tender ache beneath her heart, she would be fine.
And it did help. It helped when she moved out and felt as if she'd fail. It helped when she learned about the endometriosis, and about being barren. It helped.
It didn't help the loneliness. But given the alternative--
She learned to live with that.
The Sixth Station - Joe Hisashi
[instrumental]
It was very different, living with Hugh.
Not unadulterated joy, but she'd never expected that. It wasn't a romance novel, but it wasn't a tragedy either. Literary fiction, perhaps, the inner workings of a marriage where both parties had wounds of their own.
It wasn't joyful. It wasn't sorrowful. It was happy, and more than that, it was complete.
She'd never really felt complete before.
On Your Wings - Iron & Wine
How we rise when we're born
like the ravens in the corn
on their wings, on our knees
crawling careless from the sea
God, give us love in the time that we have
She knew it would end someday. She was thirteen years younger than the love of her life, in a world where men died approximately seven years before women. She knew she'd lose him someday, and probably sooner rather than later.
She tried to be grateful for what she had. She was grateful to Allah, for bringing Hugh to her, the other half of her heart. And she did not beg for more time, for she knew such a prayer was never granted.
She took what she was given. She always had.
At least she had now.
Breakable - Ingrid Michaelson
And we are so fragile,
And our cracking bones make noise,
And we are just,
Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys.
Joanna wasn't sure how to relate to her family, after. Was there even a family left to relate to?
She still loved her parents, even though they were so angry, even though that anger poisoned their children. She still loved Deborah, so frightened, and Ruth, so withdrawn, and Nadia, so determinedly happy that she wasn't really happy at all. She still loved Jasper, spoiled out of his mind, and Alan, who never really participated in anything.
She still loved them. She just didn't know if she could take them anymore without breaking.
The Only Exception - Paramore
And up until now I've sworn to myself
that I'm content with loneliness.
Because none of it was ever worth the risk.
Well, you are the only exception.
She didn't have a very good example of love when she was a child. Or ever, really. Her parents hated each other at the end, Deborah married a cheating man and wore a tense smile always, Ruth married someone for convenience, Nadia and Jasper picked up strangers in bars and never called back. Only Alan seemed genuinely happy.
So she stayed lonely. She never met anyone worth the risk.
And then she met Hugh, and everything was different. Everything.
She told him she'd never believed in love before him, and meant every word of the cliché.
My Favorite Book - Stars
How I know your face,
All the ways you move,
You come in, I can read you
You're my favourite book
She knew Hugh better than she'd ever known anyone. The strange thing was that she didn't try-- she looked at him, and she knew. If he was unhappy, if he was pleased, if he'd had an excellent day at the office or if he'd been cut off in traffic, she knew. Some strange magic of her own.
Then one day she came home and he looked up and asked immediately, "What's wrong?" and she realized he knew her that well, too.
She'd never expected that. She found, as she settled into his arms, that she liked it.
I'll Meet You There -- Owl City
You could be anywhere
Open your eyes and see everything you can be
I'll meet you there
Joanna would have given anything to be Olivia's mother in truth.
As it was, there wasn't much she could do. Yvonne had already torn her child apart and left her to stumble, to pick up the pieces of herself as best she could. If Joanna had borne her, how different her life would have been-- a prayed-for, beloved child instead of the byproduct of another plan.
But she did what she could. Olivia was so-- she deserved love, needed it, all the love she could get.
How could she have done anything else for this child of her heart?
The Book of Love, Dar Williams
And I've played all the characters
The fool, the friend, the wife
And no matter what the ending is
The story of my life is the book of love
For someone so determined not to love, her life had been defined by it. By her family, who she loved still in a helpless sort of way, but could not be with. By her husband, her other soul, the missing piece of her she'd thought she'd never find. By Olivia, her daughter in spirit if not in blood.
And larger, more people. Her friends. The few ex-boyfriends she had. Her coworkers. And different, other forms of love. Her books. Her library.
She didn't know how her life would end, but she liked where it was going.
Rating: PG
Summary: Joanna in ten songs.
Warnings: mentions of child neglect.
Notes: Hurray for mixes!
A girl disappearing
To some secret prison
But she's right in front of me
A girl disappearing
Joanna wanted to disappear.
Everything was all right when she was little, when Mema and Baba liked each other. She could be out in the open then, a little girl running and playing like all little girls did. She could be noisy and happy and messy and Mema and Baba would just smile and say she was their own little Joanna, their own little girl.
Now there were no more smiles, no more comforting words, only shouting and twisted mouths and angry eyes.
She huddled into her covers at night and prayed for invisibility.
Sir Walter Scott: We're all doomed!
Leo Tolstoy: Yes!
Honore de Balzac: Oui...
Edgar Allen Poe: Aaaarrrggghhhh!
The books became her safety.
She knew how to read before everything happened, of course, and she liked it well enough. But after everything, after life at home became cold and tense, the library became safety.
There were no shouts there, no fights. There were only the rustle of pages and the whisper of the books, the stories, a thousand escapes into a thousand lands where, if she ever got upset, she could close the book and escape.
She fell in love with books and libraries before she was even ten.
She carries the act so convincingly
The fact is sometimes she believes it
She can be happy with the way things are
Be happy with the things she's done
She lied to herself over the years.
It wasn't a bad lie. She didn't really know afterwards how she would have gotten along without it. As long as she could believe she was all right by herself, as long as she could ignore the tiny, tender ache beneath her heart, she would be fine.
And it did help. It helped when she moved out and felt as if she'd fail. It helped when she learned about the endometriosis, and about being barren. It helped.
It didn't help the loneliness. But given the alternative--
She learned to live with that.
[instrumental]
It was very different, living with Hugh.
Not unadulterated joy, but she'd never expected that. It wasn't a romance novel, but it wasn't a tragedy either. Literary fiction, perhaps, the inner workings of a marriage where both parties had wounds of their own.
It wasn't joyful. It wasn't sorrowful. It was happy, and more than that, it was complete.
She'd never really felt complete before.
How we rise when we're born
like the ravens in the corn
on their wings, on our knees
crawling careless from the sea
God, give us love in the time that we have
She knew it would end someday. She was thirteen years younger than the love of her life, in a world where men died approximately seven years before women. She knew she'd lose him someday, and probably sooner rather than later.
She tried to be grateful for what she had. She was grateful to Allah, for bringing Hugh to her, the other half of her heart. And she did not beg for more time, for she knew such a prayer was never granted.
She took what she was given. She always had.
At least she had now.
And we are so fragile,
And our cracking bones make noise,
And we are just,
Breakable, breakable, breakable girls and boys.
Joanna wasn't sure how to relate to her family, after. Was there even a family left to relate to?
She still loved her parents, even though they were so angry, even though that anger poisoned their children. She still loved Deborah, so frightened, and Ruth, so withdrawn, and Nadia, so determinedly happy that she wasn't really happy at all. She still loved Jasper, spoiled out of his mind, and Alan, who never really participated in anything.
She still loved them. She just didn't know if she could take them anymore without breaking.
And up until now I've sworn to myself
that I'm content with loneliness.
Because none of it was ever worth the risk.
Well, you are the only exception.
She didn't have a very good example of love when she was a child. Or ever, really. Her parents hated each other at the end, Deborah married a cheating man and wore a tense smile always, Ruth married someone for convenience, Nadia and Jasper picked up strangers in bars and never called back. Only Alan seemed genuinely happy.
So she stayed lonely. She never met anyone worth the risk.
And then she met Hugh, and everything was different. Everything.
She told him she'd never believed in love before him, and meant every word of the cliché.
How I know your face,
All the ways you move,
You come in, I can read you
You're my favourite book
She knew Hugh better than she'd ever known anyone. The strange thing was that she didn't try-- she looked at him, and she knew. If he was unhappy, if he was pleased, if he'd had an excellent day at the office or if he'd been cut off in traffic, she knew. Some strange magic of her own.
Then one day she came home and he looked up and asked immediately, "What's wrong?" and she realized he knew her that well, too.
She'd never expected that. She found, as she settled into his arms, that she liked it.
You could be anywhere
Open your eyes and see everything you can be
I'll meet you there
Joanna would have given anything to be Olivia's mother in truth.
As it was, there wasn't much she could do. Yvonne had already torn her child apart and left her to stumble, to pick up the pieces of herself as best she could. If Joanna had borne her, how different her life would have been-- a prayed-for, beloved child instead of the byproduct of another plan.
But she did what she could. Olivia was so-- she deserved love, needed it, all the love she could get.
How could she have done anything else for this child of her heart?
And I've played all the characters
The fool, the friend, the wife
And no matter what the ending is
The story of my life is the book of love
For someone so determined not to love, her life had been defined by it. By her family, who she loved still in a helpless sort of way, but could not be with. By her husband, her other soul, the missing piece of her she'd thought she'd never find. By Olivia, her daughter in spirit if not in blood.
And larger, more people. Her friends. The few ex-boyfriends she had. Her coworkers. And different, other forms of love. Her books. Her library.
She didn't know how her life would end, but she liked where it was going.
