roles

Feelings of being walking death are abating to the point that I trimmed my Hughesian fingernails for the first time in a month and, for the first time in same, writing doesn't feel like a triviality.

Wish I had seen BOSCH LEGACY 2-7, for Honey Chandler's "What fresh hell is it now?" answer to Bosch's phone call: would've used it for the last two months when I had my phone glued to me at all times. Still getting used to not having to be available all the time, for better or for worse.

A phrase, swirling about: there are no more roles to play. I'm the end of his line, the end of the line; and here I am now (entertain myself). All I do know about my future is that writing will continue to be part of it, though only a part: I've wasted too much of my life on hopes and dreams and things outside my control and would rather spend it on pursuits that fascinate and stimulate, with the art and craft of writing as my means of processing all: perhaps not all that different from what it is now, though moving forward with the benefit of acceptance. As boxing and running and weights and yoga are my daily training for my body, writing is the same for my mind. Whatever chips fall will fall where they may.

Decided on one thing I want to do: purchase a motorcycle that requires me to rebuild it before I can even think of riding it. I want to learn the ins and outs of how these wonderful things work and doing it myself feels like the best way to go about precisely that.

Note: I've adored motorcycles my whole life but I'm only getting one now that he's passed because he was terrified of something happening to me on one.

Only three major – and only one's all that major – hurdles to get through over the next several days, weeks, months: most immediate (and the one that I'm dreading) being his funeral because I absolutely loathe funerals. Take it back, then: I suppose there's one more role to play - avatar of grief and memory for a town and for a county; I will aspire to be comfortably numb, though I am far from it: Uncomfortably human, being both more apposite AND the role to which I'm dedicating myself for the remainder of my days.

After that, house clearing and selling and estate settling, for which I'm only responsible for the clearing (and figuring out how to get a pool table out of there and where, precisely, the fuck to put it in our little quarters), in contrast to my mother's passing, where I had to do everything. Nonetheless, all I want this week is to see Thursday in the rearview from my chair and my comfy pants.

thu/20220915

56ºF, clear-ish: monitor + keyboard riser + Obsidian + ipad + Muse + standing desk + pen and paper = a winning combo, a dance between different elements, between different phases and sides, etc etc, all coming together for the final whatever-it-ends-up-as. In theory, anyhow.

Post-great-aunt-funeral haze continues: a combo, I think, of too much socializing and of too much telling the story of how my mother died (thanks for not wanting an obit: now I have to explain to everyone that you're dead when they ask – I swear, if more had asked how I was or if I needed help when you were alive, I mightve been possessed of if not a different set of emotions then at least more qualified ones) mixed with a general dissatisfaction of current path and no clear modification to vary it.

Staring at Twitter, my fourteen years of it, and I have no clue – other than a general pervasive addiction and hope that somehow something will materialize from it (meaning that my buying into the hook/line has become learned and habitual) – just what the hell I'm doing there: have to learn to be content with toiling here in my own little corner of the ether of indifference. Working on it.

funeral interminable

Today’s lesson: the only thing more interminable than a funeral is a funeral with a pastor who doesn't know the person going into the ground but can still prattle on for half an hour about nothing; I was simultaneously horrified by his inability to edit and impressed by his total belief that he didn't waste everyone's time. Pretty sure I heard my great aunt pleading with him from inside her coffin to just get on with it but I might have been projecting; jesusfuckingchrist indeed.