Steal Your Face
I just watched "Ghost Town", starring Ricky Gervais. It was Hollywood Formula-- ghosts walking around with unfinished business, convincing hard-nosed living people to finish it in sappy ways whilst discovering their inner nice person. Still, somewhat enojyable because 1. it's Ricky Gervais and that guy is hilarious--and touching--and 2. I've had half a bottle of champagne and it's Friday night and I just want to kick back and zone out.
Movie is over. I check on Stevie and his buddy, Chandler. The first friend that Stevie has had for a sleepover, ever. It's Friday night, summer is almost here, so what the hell? Let them eat ice cream, pizza, popcorn, root beer. Let them play Star Wars Legos on the Wii for four hours. Now, at 11 p.m., they are finished creating their unique fleets of Legos starships and the battle has begun! Brothers from another mother.
I pee, wash my hands, check out my pores and eyebrows. Why do my eyebrows and nails grow so quickly? A major flaw in the human form. I would've preferred thin, hard callouses at the end of my fingers. Something about nails grosses me out--especially when they're cut at the quick. And I've cleaned up someone else's vomit that was dripping between the spokes of a wheelchair wheel. Knees, too, need some work. They're always blowing out. If there was a god s/he would have reinforced the kneecap area. Mine are alright, though. For now.
Anyhoo, while checking out said pores I thought of the dead people in the movie. Yesterday I took the boys on a little cruise of Hometown; a roundabout on our way to the swollen river. I passed the Catholic cemetery where, soon enough, the Chamber's secretary is going to be buried. Her monument is already there--her husband died over a decade ago. Her name is not on it, but there it stands, waiting. Tom Waits's cold, cold ground. How depressing and weird to be buried; to be placed in a placce completely different than that we occupy as breathers. Seems pretty stupid, really. Burn me and scatter me. Give me over to the wind and the water and the grass.
She is a devout Catholic and is, no doubt, hoping for a glorious reunion with her husband in heaven. My little foibles with her in the office have nothing on death and her contemplation of it. Will it hurt? How long will life drag out--or will it? Will she accept it, or cling desperately? There was a song I thought about the other morning. Of course, I can't remember what it was, but it occurred to me that, when I'm dead, I'll miss it. It wasn't "Wildfire" or anything ripped off by James Taylor.
I've sympathized with her this whole time--or so I thought. But I really haven't until just now. I sure as hell don't want to face those questions anytime soon and I'm sure she doesn't, either. Just when it's time to rest, garden, create a cookbook for her kids, she has to deal with the end of her life. This is no midlife crisis she's dealing with. This is the full-blown shit. I don't give a crap what she says or does until she leaves the Chamber now. I'm finally There. Don't let me off the hook, dear reader. And remind me to tell you about my last living grandparent, whom I adore, and her own struggle with the end of her life, which she is fighting with the last of her vigor. The more we live the more time we have to prepare for death, I suppose. Oh, aren't I just so deep.
Movie is over. I check on Stevie and his buddy, Chandler. The first friend that Stevie has had for a sleepover, ever. It's Friday night, summer is almost here, so what the hell? Let them eat ice cream, pizza, popcorn, root beer. Let them play Star Wars Legos on the Wii for four hours. Now, at 11 p.m., they are finished creating their unique fleets of Legos starships and the battle has begun! Brothers from another mother.
I pee, wash my hands, check out my pores and eyebrows. Why do my eyebrows and nails grow so quickly? A major flaw in the human form. I would've preferred thin, hard callouses at the end of my fingers. Something about nails grosses me out--especially when they're cut at the quick. And I've cleaned up someone else's vomit that was dripping between the spokes of a wheelchair wheel. Knees, too, need some work. They're always blowing out. If there was a god s/he would have reinforced the kneecap area. Mine are alright, though. For now.
Anyhoo, while checking out said pores I thought of the dead people in the movie. Yesterday I took the boys on a little cruise of Hometown; a roundabout on our way to the swollen river. I passed the Catholic cemetery where, soon enough, the Chamber's secretary is going to be buried. Her monument is already there--her husband died over a decade ago. Her name is not on it, but there it stands, waiting. Tom Waits's cold, cold ground. How depressing and weird to be buried; to be placed in a placce completely different than that we occupy as breathers. Seems pretty stupid, really. Burn me and scatter me. Give me over to the wind and the water and the grass.
She is a devout Catholic and is, no doubt, hoping for a glorious reunion with her husband in heaven. My little foibles with her in the office have nothing on death and her contemplation of it. Will it hurt? How long will life drag out--or will it? Will she accept it, or cling desperately? There was a song I thought about the other morning. Of course, I can't remember what it was, but it occurred to me that, when I'm dead, I'll miss it. It wasn't "Wildfire" or anything ripped off by James Taylor.
I've sympathized with her this whole time--or so I thought. But I really haven't until just now. I sure as hell don't want to face those questions anytime soon and I'm sure she doesn't, either. Just when it's time to rest, garden, create a cookbook for her kids, she has to deal with the end of her life. This is no midlife crisis she's dealing with. This is the full-blown shit. I don't give a crap what she says or does until she leaves the Chamber now. I'm finally There. Don't let me off the hook, dear reader. And remind me to tell you about my last living grandparent, whom I adore, and her own struggle with the end of her life, which she is fighting with the last of her vigor. The more we live the more time we have to prepare for death, I suppose. Oh, aren't I just so deep.
posted by lulu | 9:08 PM
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