Ashes to ashes
From 2:30 Sunday morning:
He is a beautiful person. Its his birthday, and we're having a party- which is also his wake. The backyard of his house is full of his wife, his kids, his friends, his family. There is so much love and joy and beer and cigarettes and gossip and talk about the future that I can't think that he is not here. His chair is gone from the living room. His bedroom door is closed. His wife makes a toast praising him, praising us all, telling us that he would have been 5oth this week, that it would have been their 25th wedding anniversary. There are photos of him around the place, and an album of family snapshots which I somehow avoid. I spend the night catching up with old friends, and pretending I'm not getting too pissed. Aside from the toasts and the photos I forget why I am there. Have his nipple ring and the pipe he taught me to smoke in his bag but can't look at either of them.
I thought I had dealt with this all. Its been almost two months since he passed. I was there when he made that trip, I watched it, I held him and called the priest and sat with his body until the funeral people collected it. I was trying to tell myself it was just another party, until my mother rang yesterday and as I was telling her my weekend plans and about tonight and I burst into tears. Tonight I managed to hold it together until I left to get a cab and then crying on the street corner. Ouch. Which bit hurts though?
He donated his body to the Uni so they could use it for research. I have wanted to donate mine to the Uni ever since a friend snuck me into the dissection museum years ago and I became transfixed by the people in jars. I want them to preserve my tattoos though, none of this remove-all-identifying-features nonsense. Actaully, they can use my bits and pieces as art/to make art if they like... as with that guy who does all the plasticisation (?) stuff. On this note, check out Blood Simple.
He is a beautiful person. Its his birthday, and we're having a party- which is also his wake. The backyard of his house is full of his wife, his kids, his friends, his family. There is so much love and joy and beer and cigarettes and gossip and talk about the future that I can't think that he is not here. His chair is gone from the living room. His bedroom door is closed. His wife makes a toast praising him, praising us all, telling us that he would have been 5oth this week, that it would have been their 25th wedding anniversary. There are photos of him around the place, and an album of family snapshots which I somehow avoid. I spend the night catching up with old friends, and pretending I'm not getting too pissed. Aside from the toasts and the photos I forget why I am there. Have his nipple ring and the pipe he taught me to smoke in his bag but can't look at either of them.
I thought I had dealt with this all. Its been almost two months since he passed. I was there when he made that trip, I watched it, I held him and called the priest and sat with his body until the funeral people collected it. I was trying to tell myself it was just another party, until my mother rang yesterday and as I was telling her my weekend plans and about tonight and I burst into tears. Tonight I managed to hold it together until I left to get a cab and then crying on the street corner. Ouch. Which bit hurts though?
He donated his body to the Uni so they could use it for research. I have wanted to donate mine to the Uni ever since a friend snuck me into the dissection museum years ago and I became transfixed by the people in jars. I want them to preserve my tattoos though, none of this remove-all-identifying-features nonsense. Actaully, they can use my bits and pieces as art/to make art if they like... as with that guy who does all the plasticisation (?) stuff. On this note, check out Blood Simple.
posted by Zoo at 1:20 am
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