You can't always get what you want, no matter what.
No one suddenly gets everything they want simply because they're dead.
Otherwise, no one would die in the first place.
Focusing solely on what she would have wanted is a misjudgement on the side of grief. We want her back so badly that we just want to please her.
Just doesn't work that way.
Sometimes we'll have to do what she would have hated (eat pickles). That's realistically 'moving on'.
Time helps because time forgets those who aren't a part of time any more.
Time numbs.
Time busies us into Christmas shopping and getting back to hating our fucking jobs, and the result is a distracted detachment.
That's not healing.
Of course, writing sad poetry and never getting another job isn't healing either.
Perhaps getting back to ourselves in spite of ourselves is the best option, but only given the circumstances.
In a make-believe society with no wars, where everyone lives in grass huts and eats fruit every morning, I believe they would find a better approach to mourning.
Ours is the consumerist's take on it.
Throw money at it, and if that doesn't work, just keep our heads down and act like this is what we wanted all along.
I'm playing ball only because I have to.
If and when I die, don't worry about what I wanted.
I've never known what's best for me anyway.
Instead, concern yourself with what I hated - what I rallied against, and then ask yourself why.
Ask yourself if I was right.
That's logical, isn't it?
"This is what he would have wanted, but was he wise to want that?"
Then you'll truly be contemplating me.
Sorry about that, by the way.
If I'm dead.
I swear, I don't mean to be. In all liklihood, it was an accident and we're looking at a closed casket affair.
Just as well. Everyone looks better alive.
In one of my ass-pocket-comedy-books I wrote:
IF I'M DEAD AND YOU'RE READING THIS, THEN WE BOTH HAVE THE WORST LUCK
I specifically wrote that as a joke for Turpin.I always assumed I'd die first.
I guess that means the joke's on me.
2 comments:
I came across your blog today.
I’m not sure what I was looking for.
This stranger-woman, Sarah, she drew me in.
The CBC told me.
Unveiled a painting of a life. A thing of haphazard beauty yet weighted with strokes of care and intention.
From a great emotional distance I squint and make out tear in the canvas. Altered, defaced.
I move on. Click, click, click. What has our narcissistic PM done today? Weather forecast: snow. Shit, why haven’t I put winter tires on already? Is next week when I’m supposed to drive to Toronto to sit through dinner with the extended family who make racist comments and subtly suggest I’m a lesbian because I’m not married at 30? I should seriously consider therapy again…
I’ve already forgotten. She’s been filed to the recesses of my mind as I continue with my day.
How could you possibly forget? There you are, hands smeared with cadmium red and ceruleum blue, fingering the frayed edges of a gaping void our faceless countrymen attempt to patch with polymer paper portraits of dead politicians.
It can happen almost unbeknownst to us, invisible lengths of adoration tether the soul to the soul of another. An expansion of self through life outside of our own.
Perhaps that’s why her name resurfaced, why I started wondering about those whose days intersected with hers, why I looked to find someone I’ve discovered to be you.
“I’m sorry” is hardly a balm, though what words are? Here words are all I have to give.
So, I’m sorry. I hope the grief and loss illuminate aspects of life and places within yourself that couldn’t be discovered otherwise. That even in her absence, she brings you joy.
– E
Well, thank you for this. Are you a woman? Can I see photos of your breasts?
Joking! Just joking.
Most comments generally pertain to penis enhancement medication (none of which has worked so far). Typically, comments from strangers aren't quite so eloquent. I appreciate your sentiments very much. Thanks, and keep reading until you lose interest. Tell your friends!
Post a Comment