I finished Touching from a Distance last night and then I listened to a lot of Joy Division (more than the usual a lot) and I wanted to take in Deborah, that I could hold what was hers as she did, as an instinct like bear necessities. Oftentimes she is honest with brutal edges. Why would you want to write a memoir about this unless it is to save someone (and I know who is already dead). Cries for help had another point and it was the cutting kind that bleeds even when you start to believe it's finally going to scab over.
Smoke and mirrors glamour, nothing to do. He had a kind of wanting it because it was his conviction to die. Ritual of drugs, self mutilation to not live through this numb testing, stasis. Bernard Sumner says that Ian designed his own hell to confine and doom him and I believe it. When people talk to me I drift into my head to see what they are telling. When Tony Wilson is quoted that their lives would have been harder with Ian in it, that Natalie was better off without her father, well, that was also me. Made into his nurse, or keeper, nothing to do. She had to constrain her husband in bed so he would not hurt himself. It did not have to be this epileptic mysterious nightmare. Deborah was left in the dark from everyone about his sinking life. Ian wouldn't have been able to live on his medication and he really couldn't live on it. I agree, although I'd take it farther into the shitty support system of human beings. Natalie has said that she feels strongly that it was the fault of the shitty state of health care services in the UK. Trying to understand, easier with living without. I wouldn't ever have to ask her how she felt about her father killing himself, the no blood tie instinct, sisters in voided family trees. Ian Curtis killed himself when Natalie was already a year old. Morton was playing the part of her Deborah Curtis in the film version of this book (Control). She wrote about Samantha Morton instinctively taking her hand as her mother would when they crossed the street.
I remembered for years an article from the daughter of Ian and Deborah Curtis, Natalie. My own mother opened the door and in the bar of light she was able to see which one of us was crying. My small daughter cuddled closer and tried to comfort me: 'Don't cry Mummy.
I squeeze my own whole body to scream but on waking all I could hear were my own muffled sobs. Like an autumn leaf, it landed softly in the brook and its streamlined shape was taken quickly on the surface of the water, disappearing into the distance. It was suspended from the telegraph pole and fluttered in the breeze before sailing gently down. My small daughter cuddled closer and tried to comfort me: 'Don' It was small and wrapped from head to toe in dirty rags, swaddled like a new-born baby.
It was small and wrapped from head to toe in dirty rags, swaddled like a new-born baby.
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