It is. Which is why John's going to gently point out-
He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
He feels small because everything is so big. But he's not seeing that all the big things are made of smaller things, smaller parts he can touch and affect and come to know.
He's looking up at the sky and seeing how big it is but he doesn't realize that it's made of smaller pieces that are all around him.
It's not that he can't touch it. He is touching it. He's just so used to the feel of the air on his skin that he forgot it is touching.
But-- when you notice the trees, when you start to pay attention and get to know them, how... how do you keep yourself from... getting overwhelmed by how many trees there are? And what if you can't find the... the right tree, because there are so many?
He's losing his grip on this metaphor a little.
The bottom line is that this King in Yellow half can fit so much anxiety in there, John.
How many trees can you touch at once? Only a few without stretching. And how much time or attention are you really giving to learning them if you try and touch all of them?
But the one thing I'm not afraid of is the idea that I'm doing anything less than my absolute best to try and help people here and look out for the ones I love.
I know I am. And I can't know what I don't know. So I don't worry about that.
But I worry about whether I'm using what I know I can do and what I know I can affect the best way possible. And about whether I'm being who I want to be with my words and my actions.
[ He'll pet the little body in his arms so gently. ]
Worrying about the things you know you can do has an end. You either do them or you don't. They work out, or they don't and you learn better.
Worrying about all the things that could ever happen and how to handle them and whether you could do this or that or something else? That has no end. And because you can't act, it isn't even helpful.
[ He'll lean down and nuzzle his brother close for a moment, just pouring in affection and support. ]
I know you're trying your best, Edwin. And if you fear you aren't? That's how you know you are. You'll get it. I know you will.
The little bastions of anger and defensiveness and resentment and uncertainty all start to dissolve under John's uncomplicated tenderness.
Quietly, experimentally, Yellow holds this moment in mind and touches the edge of a withered bit of gray inside him. The edges of the injury smolder, then glow, and chew into the dimness like a fire prepares ground for fresh planting. It's tiring, and it doesn't do the whole job, and he loses his grip on it all a little when the gray starts to remind him of Larson. Larson's voice, Larson's orders, Larson's threats. But he manages a little bit, at least.
He is emphatically not prepared for it. The feel of it all, so present and undeniable, on top of the reassurances and affection--
Yeah the blobby is crying it's disturbing tears, the swells of red running down his cheeks and back into the form of his body. They aren't bad tears at least. Just the product of profound relief as he starts to believe he's safe. He's home. At least for now, nothing seems keen to take that away.
And John's just going to keep petting and nuzzling and supporting him while he does it. There's nothing else that needs saying, after all. He's proud of you, Edwin, and he loves you, Edwin, and he'll help you get better. That's it.
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He forgot all the trees.
To clarify-
The man in the poem. He saw 'a wood'. But he didn't see the trees. Didn't reach out to touch one, get to know it. Look at the branches. Look at the leaves or the needles. The bark.
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No... No he didn't.
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He's looking up at the sky and seeing how big it is but he doesn't realize that it's made of smaller pieces that are all around him.
It's not that he can't touch it. He is touching it. He's just so used to the feel of the air on his skin that he forgot it is touching.
no subject
He's losing his grip on this metaphor a little.
The bottom line is that this King in Yellow half can fit so much anxiety in there, John.
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What's the 'right' tree?
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He noses gently at John's collarbone.
Are you never afraid of... of all the things that could happen? All the bad things?
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But the one thing I'm not afraid of is the idea that I'm doing anything less than my absolute best to try and help people here and look out for the ones I love.
I know I am. And I can't know what I don't know. So I don't worry about that.
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He also knows he himself is not. A new little blossom of shame roots itself into a dark corner, to suck up whatever negative thoughts come its way.
But how do you not worry?
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But I worry about whether I'm using what I know I can do and what I know I can affect the best way possible. And about whether I'm being who I want to be with my words and my actions.
[ He'll pet the little body in his arms so gently. ]
Worrying about the things you know you can do has an end. You either do them or you don't. They work out, or they don't and you learn better.
Worrying about all the things that could ever happen and how to handle them and whether you could do this or that or something else? That has no end. And because you can't act, it isn't even helpful.
[ He'll lean down and nuzzle his brother close for a moment, just pouring in affection and support. ]
I know you're trying your best, Edwin. And if you fear you aren't? That's how you know you are. You'll get it. I know you will.
no subject
Quietly, experimentally, Yellow holds this moment in mind and touches the edge of a withered bit of gray inside him. The edges of the injury smolder, then glow, and chew into the dimness like a fire prepares ground for fresh planting. It's tiring, and it doesn't do the whole job, and he loses his grip on it all a little when the gray starts to remind him of Larson. Larson's voice, Larson's orders, Larson's threats. But he manages a little bit, at least.
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You did it! Look! You did it! It definitely looks better.
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Yeah the blobby is crying it's disturbing tears, the swells of red running down his cheeks and back into the form of his body. They aren't bad tears at least. Just the product of profound relief as he starts to believe he's safe. He's home. At least for now, nothing seems keen to take that away.
no subject