Brief update to the thing about all the meetings after someone dies because the meeting was had

in

(previously…)

And it was, indeed, a meeting about a pamphlet about handling the stages of grief since people my age aren't – according to them – used to loss (the nine or ten funerals I've attended and four dogs I've lost in the last eight years not withstanding). Apparently there are ten stages which came as a surprise considering I thought there were five: this place does grief to the max – though to be the Spinal Tap of funeral homes, they needed an eleventh stage.

They also gave me another water with their logo on it because, according to the lead funeralist, his wife was a marketing major.

Also: helpful reassurance that they would never run out of space, in case I wanted to be buried near my loved ones. I decided to, a.) not vomit in my mouth and b.) not tell them that my ideal sendoff is the donation of my body to a dinner theater rendition of FARGO for the wood chipper scene. Tarps for diners optional.

Verisimilitude FTW oh you betcha.

thinking on feet while standing still or vice versa

in

Finding, at least for now, that standing while working seems to trigger my ability to let things come and worry about them later, to think better and with more clarity, far more than sitting (though I am writing this utterly forgettable thing that might become a part of another thing but for now will exist only in this ephemeral vacuum while sitting, of course): thinking on my feet is good for me.

(To facilitate more comfort, I added an old yoga mat – my dear, deceased Marley's anti-slip mat that we used to take everywhere with us to unfurl across the bane of Marley's existence, the hardwood and/or linoleum floor – between the Dollar Store area rug and concrete that comprise the Sanctum’s floor.)

Can source my propensity for feet-thinking, probably, to my percussion / marimba days as much as anything: with the exception of drumset and timpani (sometimes), I stood for all performances, practices, and etc; in other words, I'm used to moving around to tap into that certain something something that some would call flow but that I will simply call an enhanced ability to put one word in front of the other.

Also: standing makes my back hurt a lot less: moving is the only time ye olde herniated discs aren’t causing me agony. Who would have thought that the amelioration of pain would lead to more clarity of thought. Wow. Stunning.

there are many meetings after someone dies and other truths learned in the last 24 hours

in

even if they were cremated and put in their box the day after they died. Apparently the funeral home has an "informative packet" for me which should be interesting and, perhaps, even, informative. At least they got rid of that fucking fountain.

(I seriously don't remember having to go to the funeral home so much even after my stepfather, who had $10k worth of pomp and circumstance, finally kicked it.)

Ok, I guess that’s the only thing I’ve learned in the last 24 hours.

the cardinal at the window

in

Over the past couple of days a cardinal has been slamming his head into the living room window. We've put up fake owls in the window and he still slams and slams and slams. Intercrainal hemorrhaging would have taken root by now, surely?

Or a broken window, whichever comes first.

Or a broken mind, to wit: I have been swearing at this cardinal because my mother, in the months before her death, had – at least as far as the items I've found and mail order items delivered – become obsessed with cardinals.

The day she died, I opened one of the delivered and unopened packages and found it filled with little chotchke woodblocks relaying messages of something or other about a cardinal being an angel or memory or IDK whatthefuckever, and, given the timing – and in spite of being the indifferent agnostic with atheistic tendencies that I am, I (my stance: if I'm wrong, I'm wrong – and I'm relatively convinced that holy water would melt me like Christopher Lee circa 1965)– suitably, I think, and sans too fine a point, freaked the fuck out.

We've now entered day three of the intercranially-hemorrhaging headslamming cardinal and I am swearing at him still, jesusfuckingchrist go away, youre not getting in, youre not making me feel guilty anymore for being me im free now – or I will be once I get all of your fucking Christmas decorations out of your garage / QVC does NOT constitute generational family heirlooms…