Thou dost with disease and sickness dwell; and herbs and poppies can make us sleep as well.

I watched Emma Thompson's Wit last night. It's a TV film about an academic that is diagnosed with terminal cancer, and it is the only thing that's made me cry in about five or six years now. When I first saw it I sat on my bed and cried, and I'm not quite sure why. Not because Emma Thompson's character is lovely and her loss is a sad loss for the world; she's fairly brutal. I think the world needs brutal people though. Emma Thompson is amazing in the film; she's my favourite actress. She's pretty much amazing in anything. I probably like it so much because it is dark, not overly emotional considering the subject matter and unflinching. I also like the good acting. I also like John Donne, though I dislike the way the lecture points that she makes are fairly standard yet everyone acts as if she's discovered the answer to the universe. And I feel fairly insulted at the assertion that Shakespeare is a Hallmark card. He's not all sonnets and even they're not airy fairy. Just because he's dramatic and writes about base emotion doesn't make him a crappy Hallmark card.

But the magic didn't come again and I didn't cry because I came to it halfway through, I was wrapping christmas presents at the time, and my Dad and brother were watching it with me. My Dad's Dad (my Grandad) died when he was nine, hence I always feel slightly apprehensive about death around him, well people dying. And my brother is wonderful but a teenager so I didn't expect him to appreciate the subtleties of Donne. On a second glance, some of it seems hammy; the doctors are all wankers, except for the one nurse, and the scene where she gets read that story by her old lecturer is lovely, but did it have to be a rabbit book? I appreciate the significance and all, what with the Beatrix Potter rabbit motif, the idea that Donne's poetry is like a rabbit warren, the fact that you go back to being childlike before death because you're vulnerable and learning new things all over again.... but the Runaway Rabbit? Come on, they could have done better than that. Even though they try to academise it by calling it, "an allegory to the soul". I can't ever cry in front of anyone. My family included; it's just weakness, and it strips everything away. Almost like being suddenly naked.

I cried at my Grandma's funeral; that was the last time in public. It was horrendous, because I wasn't expecting to cry and then suddenly the floodgates opened. Someone in a row behind shoved a hanky at me. It was that feeling of being on show, because I was in the front row, and having everyone whisper piteously at me whilst they stuffed themselves with funeral food later, "did you see her granddaughter on the front row? Broke her little heart, she did." I didn't want any pity. I can't remember quite what it was I wanted. I was fourteen.

She cried in front of me once. Not my Grandma, the girl. I'll have to think of a moniker for her; I'm not putting her real name. She felt like she could let the boundaries down I suppose. I didn't quite know what to do in response, aside from tell her that it was fine and hold her hand. That was when we split up. And it was strange because after she said she couldn't see me anymore, we were close like always but it felt more awkward. The word awkward is spelt exactly as it is. Onomatopoeia of a sort, I suppose. She cried because she was missing her Dad, and she needs him such a lot. First Christmas without him she's spending with her family but not in their house. It must be horrible. I want to let her know that I'm thinking of her but I don't know if she will want me to be thinking of her, or if she'll feel crowded if I write. I don't want to make her hate me more or feel bad. I am so glad she doesn't read this. I thank my lucky stars that noone I know reads it. Well, they could be reading it I suppose, but hopefully they wouldn't know it was me.