Post One Hundred and Forty Two: I've Got This.

A moment of clarity reminded me that people really trust me. A trust with overwhelming reliance. Their loved ones die and they actually let me drive away with them. I take the wheel and pull away with the most treasured piece of cargo one can ever ferry forwards. It's me versus their reluctance to accept a defeat by death.

It's heavy stuff. I understand the torment. I understand that I could be hated for what I take away.

I've got this. Trust me.

Post One Hundred And Forty One: The Little Things.

I was dressing an old guy in his suit today when I realised that he had Chicago Bulls socks to put on. I wondered when the last time was that this 86 year old man had watched basketball. This made me smile, imagining him cheering on the likes of Michael Jordan and Dennis Rodman in the 90's. Perhaps the socks were gifted without an awareness of a logo, but I wanted to believe that this guy appreciated all things dope.

I smiled a lot today. The socks added to the pleasant mood. Yesterday I put a pair of boxer shorts on a man that had 'hot and throbbing' printed all over the cheap satin. This guys junk held neither of those characteristics, by the sheer fact that his blood hadn't been pumping for three entire days. I was too busy to chuckle yesterday, but today I could reflect on the irony and hoped that this inside joke was in fact an intention of the family.

I got pooped on by another dead person, but I was able to handle it today because I realised that I could actually handle it. I googled whether poop had ever killed anyone and found out that it indeed has, by monstorous gushings of elephant dung or crushing via fallen awnings covered in pidgeon shit. A little bit of poop on a sleeve was not a cause for distress.

So there you go. It's the little things, like googling shit and observing paradox, that makes a day special.

Peace. x

Post One Hundred and Forty: Saturn Returns.

Astrology isn't one of my most familiar belief systems, but a very dear friend of mine has introduced me to a phenomena that seems to be personally befitting.

'Saturn returning' is a whack planetary curiosity that is said to influence a persons life development at 27-30 year intervals. Apparently it takes about that long for Saturn to take a hoon around the sun, and when the flags are waived and the orbit is completed the person is said to move onto a new stage in life. And so it begins, and would thus explain the last six or so months worth of sentient cramping. It isn't hormones, m*ther f*ckers.

Tool wrote about it, as did REM. No doubt named a record after it and Drew Barrymore talked about it on The Late Show with David Letterman. People know about it. I guess I missed the memo saying "Things are gonna get f*cking crazy up in this s*it."

I'm cool. I'm pretty done with the last 27 years. It was a hoot, for sure, but the whole idea of rebirth and resurrection is charming. With the whole "I'm a mortician and I understand sadness" caper well oiled, I want to focus on something else. The same job, but a new perspective. I am yet to find this, but I'm happy knowing that saturn is smashing it's way around and if Astroboy has his way I'll be coming up roses pretty soon.

Like those shit cards with the 'contemporary' font, I wouldn't mind dancing like no one was watching. And I could, but I'll still look like a dick.

Sorry for the potty mouth mum. As described, I'll grow out of it soon.

Peace x