Silas House is a New York Times bestselling author. Recent words in The Atlantic, Garden and Gun, Time, Ecotone, and more.
www.silas-house.com
On Headaches (Discovery for 8/24/09)
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An especially terrible headache is as big and endless and dark as the ocean, stretched tight across the globe, middled by black white-capping waves that chop at the horizon, a largeness and darkness like death.
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Anonymous said…
ouch! drink lots and lots of water to cure a headache.
Anonymous said…
If this isn't the truth. There are people who don't have an end to that sort of pain too. It's why I can't judge people for suicide, even if I disagree with it.
How can you hate someone for throwing themselves into that ocean, when it stretches unending?
Just came ashore from a week's worth of one of those and I think if there's beauty in headaches it's the sweet release you feel when it's gone. There's beauty in the blessing of not suffering every day.
There are two places in Southeastern Kentucky I think of as my true homes: the small community of Lily , in the foothills of Laurel County, and, fifty miles east, Rockhouse Creek , in the lush mountains of Leslie County. I will focus on Rockhouse here, mainly because it is the dark, lovely topography of my collective memory, but also because it is the epitome of Central Appalachia, the kind of place that journalists-who-don’t-know-what-they’re-talking-about always zoom in on with their statistics and opinions. In fact, Rockhouse is located just a few miles from the communities that were recently the focus of a piece called “ What’s The Matter With Eastern Kentucky? ” by Annie Lowrey in The New York Times that referred to Appalachia and the Deep South as “the smudge of the country.” Well, I am that smudge. My people are that smudge. My homeland is that smudge. And we are much, mu...
First in a series of short essays based on photographs. This is my Great Uncle Dave's camping chair. He carried it to Dale Hollow Lake for almost fifty years, from when he first visited there in the late 1940s until shortly before his death in 1996. These types of chairs are still common at some funeral homes in the South but when I was growing up the elders in my family always took the lightweight and sturdy folding seats on camping trips, too. It is still solid as a pine knot and surprisingly comfortable. It folds up smoothly and hooks right across my shoulder for easy carrying. My Great Aunt Mildred gave this chair to me a few years after Uncle Dave passed away. She's gone now, too, like all of the real elders in my family. My family only recently rose to solid middle class so we do not inherit expensive antique sideboards or wedding China patterns and silver. Our heirlooms are the smaller things: the dripolator (a stovetop coffee pot) my aunt used every day of her life,...
This year, especially: Find a body of water, and be still beside it for a time. Build a fire and watch the flames. Sit on the porch. Lie on the grass. Light candles. Take a deep breath. Write a letter to someone. Discover something new everyday. Learn. Tell stories. Listen to old people. Ask them questions. Do something nice for others when you can and treat yourself occasionally. Read actual, real books and newspapers. Buy grocery store flowers. Spend an entire day without looking at your phone. If you feel the urge to post a selfie everyday, take a picture of some other beautiful thing instead. Remember that there is power in moderation. Learn to cook or bake something new. Enjoy every meal. Savor your food. Drink water. Any chance you get, hold a baby. Anytime the opportunity arises, dance. Always swim or wade in the water. Study leaves. At least once this year, pee outside. Be completely quiet. Turn your favorite song up as ...
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drink lots and lots of water to cure a headache.
How can you hate someone for throwing themselves into that ocean, when it stretches unending?