barnfall, part two

in

Over the past few weeks, a crew has been dismantling (and trucking off for expensive homes in Montana) the long-crumbling barn (built circa 1858) at my grandfather’s house. Today was my first time seeing the results in person: a strange, disorienting view sans the red monument that had been a constant presence every time I visited for the last 41 years. I absconded with souvenirs - will explore more later.

Original view from driveway (and here’s part one with more pictures from before the felling):

Current view from driveway:

Closer:

Cleanup crew should arrive in a couple weeks and it will be like it never existed.

of random randomness

in

For some reason or another, randomness has become the driving factor of more than a few of my once-sacrosanct and prescribed habits and routines: started using Downward Dog and its randomizing of randomness to mix up the yoga routine and their HIIT programs to vary that part of the daily exertions (the running route has stayed, largely, the same); I've become a junkie for iOS randomizer shortcuts and widgets, especially for Pinboard (while there is one in the Pinner app that I use, it still shows the title of the post in the widget – I'm anal enough that I want one that is just a button that I can press and it opens a random one without telling me what it is is; I'm trying to reverse engineer an Instapaper randomizer to work with PB by my shortcut creation acumen is minimal at best); I've come to love the random note feature in Obsidian; and I'm sure more will pop up eventually.

Telling myself it's representative of me ceding efforts to control things and letting my OCD sputter into nothingness but who knows it could just be another temporary fascination.

randy the chihuahua

in

For longtime readers, you might remember an occasional writing about little Randy the chihuahua, the neighborhood watch commander whose favorite game for the last ten years has been chasing me down the road (and occasionally falling into snowdrifts) on the day's run and biting at my heels (I also named the asshole in my brain Randy in her honor) as I pass her house.

While Randy's still around (both corporeal and mental - though the latter iteration is FAR FAR FAR less overwhelming than before: it's nice to not hate myself all the time), she's been eight for a long time and is now going blind and not chasing me any more – though she did try: the other day she ran to the driveway when she heard me run past and barked and barked but never saw me. I could still hear her barking half a mile down the road.

And yes, I was as heartbroken by that as you probably are. I'll miss that little shit when the time comes.

(un)intentional unintentionality and other afternoon adventures

in

Taking the Sunday opportunity to write something here not only because the subject matter is on my mind but to test out and get used to typing on my new Logitech Ergo K860 keyboard and obliterate not only most wrist pain but my speedy hunt and peck typing of the last 30-odd years.

Might slow me down – not necessarily a bad thing.

Anyhow:

Learning, as I tinker with my day during K's summer break, that my problem is not with being bored (though I do get bored) but rather with periods of unintentionality or, to be more specific, with periods of unintentional unintentionality: while I'm fine with intentional unintentionality – I can add a layer of intention – watch a movie, drink with Lenny in RED DEAD II, WHERE ARE YOU LENNY?! etc etc – it’s those periods of unintentional unintentionality, those times when I'm at the mercy of others, when I'm at the apex of my status as – in my therapist's words – a sheep dog without sheep, those times when my happy pills work overtime to obviate the existential miasma of indecision and pacing – Kirby in tow, from one end of the house to the other – endemic to said lack of sheep, that prove themselves dangerous and fertile ground for the rabid chihuahua in my head to run rampant with its invasive thought-fuckery.

Solution: try to be more intentional in periods of unintentionality and/or learn to go with the flow more in those periods of unintentional unintentionality.

I think I'll be able to get used to this keyboard - though I still need the slight lift from the Apple Pencil box to make it work better for me. Intriguing.

farewell s key

in

you were a solid key a good key starting many a sentence and finishing many a word the middle too but now youre going going gone at least on one keyboard which brings me to the question of did i use you too much whatwith too many plurals maybe or possibly too many starting and stoppings and stirrups in symmetrical efforts at synchronicity lost to fallings and failings and lackings of imagination(s) but then again these are the days as natalie and the maniacs remind us the days now of the s-key clickclacks sounding still though seen now not upon your empty plastic placeholder but only in your manifestations resultant on-screen and off

l3 finale, finally

in

Her apartment has been empty for a week, the keys have been turned in, the "assets secured," and last evening I watched the Garbage Guy chuck the mattress and box springs ("they're dead, wrapped in plastic") into his truck and winced when the box springs fell out from about 10 feet above and gouged a scar in my yard but that's ok scars give it, the yard, character.

Considered going out to ask if I could help him but then THE CLAW came out of the side of the truck and he got both of those things in the back of the truck – though the box springs still stood out over the side so Garbage Guy disappeared and then emerged on top of the truck in a remarkable display of some Houdini/Gandalf shit to arrange everything and smash it in.

I waited until he drove away and exhaled and lifted the heavy stone and wheeled the empty back.

plastic catharsis

in

Her apartment is empty, ready to rent, ready to leave, and only trash cans – no, a trash can, though maybe two – and a plastic-wrapped mattress and boxspring remain (will get the latter out this weekend).

And glitter on the floor; there might be a roll of toilet paper left too.

Left the washer and dryer, compliments of the estate of.

It looks the same on the inside in the same way that everything looks the same in the little matchbox apartment development: as my grandfather said when we first moved her there, I'd hate to be drunk coming into this place; I'd never find where I lived.

(To this day, two years after she moved there and almost a month after she died and after a month of me going there almost every day I still can't remember where the apartment is until I'm almost past it.)

My relief remains unchanged, my only sadness being that she made it impossible for me to miss her; I want to miss her, I wish I did, but I don't: seeing all the trinkets and couches I slept on and upon which developed PTSD because I didn't sleep for a month, listening and waiting for her while she was sick years ago and the beds I had to re-assemble more times for reasons a kid never should have to and the Christmas decor tubs that I'll never have to lift again and the memories of the Christmases near the end of the ill-fated and ill-suited partnership that produced me that made me hate Christmas and seeing all that go into the back of the white van for the tax-deductible donation being nothing short of catharsis incarnate.

I remain fascinated that the most difficult things to dispose of are trash cans and mattresses and bad memories.

a random collection of passing thoughts recorded here if only for the purposes of my own amusement and/or processing

in

  • A sudden fear that if I ever get to return to a city I'll be the epitome of yokel: it's been more than a decade – I've never even called an Uber for fuck's sake; I'd be the idiot waving my hand at every yellow car that crosses my path.

  • My only sadness in all of this post-mother-death stuff remains that, over the last 25 years, she made it impossible for me to miss her now.

  • The most exhausting part remains, similarly, that, whereas I only had to lie / act to her about my feelings during her life, I now have to lie / act to everyone who – and I know they all mean well – texts and calls and sends cards about the same in death. I'm somewhat terrified now that some of them will find this space (and have a feeling that some have) but I won't censor myself here – this is where I can be myself, the truest version, for better or for worse.

  • (This quandary is, notably, not found in the funeral home's handy ten stages of grief packet)

  • But I'll give the lie/act six months. 26 October, it's done. Anyone approaches me afterwards, they get the unvarnished truth.

  • It has been nice, I'll admit, to see pictures – slashing my stepfather out of the ones he graced with his sneering, bile-infused presence – of the life my long-departed animal companions of youth led after I had run away to Boston. I wish I could have been there with them, but it was made impossible for me; I would have ended up a suicide statistic.

  • At this rate, I could have taken the bar and seen to all of these court-appointed administrative tasks myself.

  • But at the same time, I recognize – begrudgingly – that not everyone moves at my pace. That doesn't mean I don't hate having to wait on other people. I MEAN REALLY FUCKING HATE WAITING ON OTHER PEOPLE just want the boxes to be checked, i's crossed, t's dotted, all that. Show me where to sign please.

  • BOSCH: LEGACY is much better than any spinoff/continuation has any right to be. Relief to be free of the LAPD politics that subsumed the last few seasons of the original.

  • I'm still finding glitter on my person from having to move all of this seasonal decor; it's like Tinkerbell puked everywhere.

  • If you're looking for a solid, mindless, and gloriously insane action flick, check out LOST BULLET on Netflix: loved it.

  • I am bored with my current selection of music and need new music send more, send something different please.

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.