Post One Hundred and Eighty Nine: This Is How We Do It.

I blush. Lots. It's a thing that I do at the most inconvenient of times.

I blush when I do normal 'sexy-clumsy' things like accidentally touch a stranger's boob or maintain a goodwill handshake for that instant too long so it looks like I'm initiating a creep attack. I also blush at stupid times, confirming the impression that I am of a dastardly marrow.

Explaining mortuary procedures. Announcing grave locations. Shaking hands with Priests.

It happened yesterday when I was at a family home arranging a funeral service. A man had passed away at the age of 90 and his nephew was appointed the task of commissioning the arrangements. I arrived at his stately Brighton home in the early evening and I was taken aback by the grandeur. Mercedes and BMW in the driveway, parked in a neat spread eagle around the Bellagio-esque fountain. I wanted to roll in the lush grass but alas, I had a grown up job ahead of me.

I rang the fancy bell wearing my fancy fake pearls. The gentleman answered, looked at me in my most serious garb, smiled earnestly and ushered me inside. I blushed. I wanted to look suave and impressive, just like the mansion I was stepping into, but these attempts were foiled by the observed parody of me looking like I was lugging a corpse in addition to the coffin catalogues and overstuffed plot pricing folders that I forcibly haul in my briefcase  (I am the Mary Poppins of funeral props and I can confirm that this bag holds the mysterious secrets of the departed). We made our way across his perfectly parqueted floors and past his grand piano in the drawing room, and in under two minutes I had waltzed into a land of long dismissed budgets.

A digression, I know, but I live behind a naughty massage parlour and a convenience store in a run down suburban unit that has questionable electricity supplies. There are holes in most of the walls and the entrance is a large graffitied metal gate with wonderfully creative anarchist embellishments. I am at peace with my humble existence and it's outwardly dreary appearance. I have cake and other such greatness inside.

Anyway, I just want to highlight that I felt like Jenny from the block. Like Jwoww in a patterned powersuit.

I blame science for inducing rapid onset blush #2. I was soon given a glass of water, placed on a delicate coaster next to me.  Science did it's thing to make me look like a dickhead. The vaccuum created by the condensation on the glass did that sneaky little hermetic seal thing and I proceeded to spill water over all of the nearby expensive decor-wankery. The coaster clanged to the table, frightening me even more, and after the initial splatter I compounded the tsunami; jerking my hand upward with such vigour that I threw the contents of the glass across the room. My contract paperwork was soaked. I was embarrassed, and I wore it in my cheeks and on my white blouse.

"Let's talk about the Prayers of the Faithful whilst you judge my sad and sorry wet t-shirt competition entry?"

It was less than ideal. We moved on.

With great possibility of sounding like an even surer dickhead, I had incorrectly assumed that this man was gay. It goes without saying that this bore no impact at all on the service that I was providing. (In fact, for whatever reason I felt like we bonded on a personal level moreso than I ordinarily do with the general cross section of middle aged male clients). The fact of the matter is that my gaydar was activated with little to no significance.  His style was impeccable, his face soft and dewy, and his tone of voice ever so whimsical. And that was that. Until he mentioned his children and I incorrectly assumed his male partner and himself had children. By this stage of exposed idiocy I was in an eternal state of blush.

The arrangement ended positively, through no fault of my own. This man was lovely, and somehow his sense of humour and relaxed views on death actually led to him being charmed by my lack of social grace.

The moral of the story, I do suppose, is that some days I just don't get things right. I also don't give myself enough credit. I made a mess. I forked out a faux pas. But I still manage to connect with people, every day, in the most unique of circumstances.

I'll keep wheelin' and dealin' in death for now.

Peace and Love,
S.

Post One Hundred and Eighty Eight: The Fringe.

I am here on the fringe of reason.

I am there with you when you attempt to make sense of this dissonance. The reality of death, the malignant repercussion of existing.

I am here on the fringe of reason.

I am there with you if you want to talk, to rationalise mortality. When you farewell your people you are free to pursue understanding, and this inquiry will supply fuel to the meaning that you attribute to life.

I am here on the fringe of reason.  

Post One Hundred and Eighty Seven: Deluge and Quackery.

Exhaustion has a strange effect on me. A strange and obnoxious effect, that hijacks my tongue from it's subterrane. I'm stifled by this invisible monster. I'm a time pauper, a beggar for rest, a lady in liquidation.

Being a funeral director can be a tough gig. Each undertaking on it's own is relatively simple, but like Jenga, if you stack each errand atop the other without deliberation and due concentration the tower becomes unsturdy. The citadel collapses.

I crumble.

I miss having the mental energy to write.

The whole operation is basically a case of highly specialised albeit slightly morbid event management. Each death that we come across cannot be isolated in time. The end of a life deserves it's own respected moment, but this is not necessarily the case in reality. In any one week I may have personally fielded over fifty calls from family members enquiring about funeral services rates and procedures. Fifty dead people, requiring immediate and deserved attention. Each unique soul disconnected and recently departed from it's corresponding corporeal flesh. My office is abuzz with bereavement. And somedays, I wish I could switch the latch to engaged on deaths door.

I'm sorry Mr Reaper, please wait until the individual in the cubicle has relieved herself. Thank you.

I'm questioning the sustainability of a profession that observes no boundaries. Can you balance a job that you never really understand? How many people can I help float before I start to sink?

Peace and Love,
S.

Post One Hundred and Eighty Six: Origin.

Why do I feel, as I'm nearing thirty, that I don't know who this is? 

Meet Dianne. She is my mother. She squeezed me out in October of 1984. I imagine that as soon as I could focus my tiny baby eyes on my forebearers face I was probably trying to figure her out. 

Screaming to get back into the womb that she housed me in, from day one I commanded for her attention. I wonder if she looked down at me in all of our placental muck and thought "Gee, this squall is going to be a handful..." 

A handful I was. I continue to be quite a dickhead. 

I've accepted a tapestry of truths in an attempt to construct a personality profile of my mother. She likes bingo, but not as much as she likes the pokies. From 1992 until about 1999 I only ever saw her in bike pants. She buys every item of new clothing for herself from Millers. She sticks her tongue out when she's watching TV. She likes hazelnut Cadbury Chocolate, and used to hide blocks of it in her underwear drawers. We never talked about life, or love or sex, or friendship; and mystery shrouds her experiences of such phenomena. I was resentful that she wasn't my best friend. I wanted her to assume the role of a traditional matriarch and share secrets of the ages. But life isn't like that, and as evidenced by Ursula's failings in The Little Mermaid, you can't control the desires of others. 

Under the various roofs that we lived beneath during my childhood, I would question her intent. She is not an archetypal woman, but she strived to keep her brood out of harm. I certainly philandered with varying threats to my survival; perils like falling off my bike, getting cracked in the skull by swing sets, and diving under the wheel of reversing vehicles (I did all three to test her patience). She worked to keep me from from going hungry. She took me to dancing competitions, she drove me around when I most certainly should have walked and most importantly she bought me connector pens in 1995. And all these things she did with minimal complaint. 

Why do I feel, as I'm nearing thirty, that I don't know who she is? I question why she worked to keep me alive, just to shy as her last bird flew the nest. 

I get it. Being a mother looks backbreaking. There's a script for it if you're one to take on characters, but doing so is a sham. Being a mother wan't so much a choice as it was a predetermined path. Things have changed. 

Mother, I can share with you some of my stories about life, and love, and friendship with you, if you're keen? We'll leave discussions about sex out of it for now. This isn't Skins. 

Peace. x 

 

 

 

Post One Hundred and Eighty Five: Really.

Love is real. It's alive, lurking far beyond the purview of it's bastardisation in popular culture.

Distress not.

This blog isn't going to permutate into a perpetual almanac of dribble about my new relationship.
(It is true though, I am in love).

My fidelity seems incomparable to the Hollywood notion of romance and attachment, which is ironic(?) considering that Los Angeles, the terra firma for such piffle, is where we'll soon reconnect.

This is old school amour. I feel like our names were written in hieroglyphic passages decorating the pyramids. The possibility that I've found this other corresponding identity feels cryptic. I want to do all the things that I deemed as important, but with him. And in turn, I want for him to take my hand as we traverse through those experiences that he calls for company therein.

To yearn sounds rhetorical; but to ache.

Until then.

Post One Hundred and Eighty Four: To The Alpines.

Let's be honest here. I haven't been writing like I used to. The well hasn't dried up; more so there's been an enduring clusterf*ck of establishment hiccups due to the introduction of a new automated jet pump drawing upon the water. Life is a rising swell. 

Moving to Melbourne was far more difficult than I had envisaged, and I was indubitably weakened by my efforts to fit in. I staggered through the weeks in self pity and dejection. I ate badly and drank too much. I convinced myself that I was experiencing an organic period of depression. Perhaps it was, but the more likely explanation is that it was me attempting to get a handle on my melancholy. See handle, read label. 

And then I met someone that helped change my perspective. And this was organic. At this point you should read the last entry, and then read it again just because. This babe of a man has influenced me with such positive ramifications that I'm quite happy to keep my hands by my side like a jig champion until we share the   same continent and I can grab his again. 

A month ago I would have thought that the concept of meeting a boy that seemingly fixed everything was f*cking obtuse. It still is, at face value, but with his happiness and energy things seem so bright. The man is a beacon. My own path is illuminated. 

Peace. 

S. 

Post One Hundred and I've Messed Up The Count, So I Might Start Again: Epoch.

"The gorillas were a red herring to cover the real intentions of my proposition" he said. 

Six months of interminable self reflection has provided evidence suggesting (to myself at least) that I do things the tricky way. At an elemental level, I tie my shoelaces the long way, with two bunny ears. I avoid microwaves. I drive a manual car. I live in a house with a toilet so far away that, story has it, people are reported to have preferred to take relief in the shower. 

I've got quite the story for you. It involves my future happiness, an interesting life event, and undoubtedly another prolonged period of narcissistic speculation. My friends, in order to tell the story properly I need to take you back in time. 

November 2, 2011. 10:22PM. The night before my grandmothers funeral. I received an email from an interesting young fellow, a reader of this here blog. It went a little something like this:

Hi,

We have a mutual friend. I won't tell you who it is because life would be far too boring without mystery... We may or may not have met, I'm gonna go with no... If we have I apologise...

Anyway, I stumbled across your blog earlier this year. One of them at least, and I'm not sure where or why or which one, but I remember it happened. The aforementioned mutual friend sent me the link to it tonight, after a brief discussion of the perpetual existential dilemma that is my spiritual journey.

Long story short, wow. Like holy effing wow. Your writing, your thought patterns, your perspective: All amazing. I'm blown away.

I will read every single post tonight, I've just stopped to make more tea, and thank you for possibly being a part of the very first steps of my 'new direction' - whatever the hell that may be.

That and you listed Cream before Simon and Garfunkel. You've made my night.

Please never stop writing. The world needs story tellers now more than ever.

Thank you.

Chad

________________________________________

To this email I replied, quite happily, at 11:07PM:

Hey there C-Dawg,

Is Chad your real name? I ask this because Chad is a very strong name, and one that I'd remember. And, it rhymes with rad.

What a lovely email. I'll be frank; I'm having a pretty suck ass time at the moment so to hear this from you has made my pre-slumber moments much more pleasing. I just finished writing my grandmothers eulogy. She is newly dead.

Anyway, good luck on the epistemological and metaphysical super highways. I certainly hope that this mutual friend buys you beer, and me one too. Thanks Chad. Chad, what a great name.

Never stop reading? Yes. That is good. Knowledge gives you magical powers.

S.

_________________________________________-:

From this time onward, Chad and I corresponded with tantamount disposition. My life seemed naturally snagged unto his, like a pair of fishing lines cast too close. We wrote, less often at first, about our fears, our friendships and our misgivings. Some days I told him about the funerals I was on, and the families that I had met with. It was an unexpected and initially unconscious relief to have found someone, a stranger, who held an opinion that I trusted and respected. Through our friendship I felt respite and consolation, even from across the considerable distance that fell between us. Hail to the Internet. 

We shared our shitty youth stories, our shitty family stories, our shitty sex stories and our shitty health stories. I must add that it wasn't all shit that we spun, as we both have some people that we cherish and many a fun tale that we shuttlecocked across to each other in an increasingly rapid rally. 

Fast forward eight months, and thousands upon thousands of words later. I met with this arresting gentleman. When our eyes met it was comforting. I was apprehensive, and well aware that by meeting someone through my blog it could be well fucking awkward. What sort of weirdos read mortuary blogs anyway, AMIRIGHT? 

We came home and drank tea. He was hungover, and all I wanted to do was hold him.We talked endlessly. My social anxieties non evident, my composure strangely stable. We spooned. We held hands. We kept things PG, mostly out of uncertainty but also out of respect for each other. What fool would threaten ruin to an interesting relationship such as ours by having a one night stand with a long term pen pal? Pffft. 

I'm quite sure it was at this point that he ripped the heart out of my body and used it as a t-ball. If he knew at that point, I'm sure he made it as gentle as possible. Chad has a strong name and an equally strong character. He is humble, and intelligent and all sorts of accomplished. Add to that, he is all sorts of classically attractive. I stalked him long before I met him, but never would I have assumed that he might in turn find in me a perfect mate. 

He knows me better than anyone, I imagine, through these last few months of exchange. He has listened to my bullshit, at great lengths, and told me that he digs it. Hard. 

And now he is leaving the country. In four days actually. Indefinitely, on his own journey of discovery and development. Balls, I know. 

He once quoted "We should buy a castle, in a cloud, and remove ourselves from society, and be the great rescinded fairy tale the world deserves." I think this is an Edgar Allan Poe quote? I don't know. I should know.Either way, it's a fucking beauty. And either way, our story is bittersweet. 

Great timing, O'Connor. Fall in love, wish to marry and have babies and do all things you once condemned and rejected, with a handsome nomad that has rock solid plans to dominate the world and take nothing but twenty three kilograms of causal clothing.  

This is the first time that I've written about a relationship. It's very personal, and very exposing. I've loved before, wooed by ladies and gents and all sorts of people in between, but this is different. When we talk, or touch, or even just look at each other, it's un-fucking-believable. I do not know what this is. 

Is this what I've been looking for? Is this what they tell me about, the old man who's wife I just buried? That old lady when she handed me the hat for the man she loved? A good old fashioned, heart warming, spine tingling thrill of the chase. 

My eulogy is destined to be one with a crazy twist. My intentions are this: Saving starts now, as does the development on my proposition.... 

Do they need funeral directors in Antarctica?