Post One Hundred and Forty Six: Unsure Of Most Things.

I don't know much about things. Really.

I feel deficient when I play board games. My last game of scrabble actually caused atrophy in the conciousness of my fellow scrabblers. It revealed how unimaginative I am under scrutiny and I hereby vow not to play again until I've purchased and digested the entire scrabble dictionary. Especially the two letter words.

How did my parents fail me? How did I fail my parents, moreso? I have a natural keenness of mind, so why do I have an arrested intelligence?

I was a really dumb kid. So dumb that I refused to write the letter a in my name. Srh it was, until grade two. I repeated grade 4 because my father was posted from Perth to Melbourne and then to Brisbane within a twelve month period.

1993 and 1994 were pivotal years in my primary education. Wrapping my head around the mysteries of short division, shrinky dinks and attention deficits. Three schools, five bowl haircuts and many a swallowed baby tooth. And then I got clever.

As girls starting following boys, I started following the Queensland cursive guidebook. I fooled people into thinking that I was an over achiever because I got my pen license in three states before the others had theirs in one. This is my secret shame.

My senior years of high school saw me retract into a nerd shell with no nerd substance. In university I struggled, mostly due to my complete lack of commitment and my exhaustive obligation to get wasted. I learned alot, but most of it is what NOT to do when you're aged 18 - 24. Good lessons, of course. But stupid.

Interesting things are happening everyday and I struggle to keep up. (Maybe a computer and a TV would help with this connection, but I'll work on that). In the funeral bizz, we have an "emotional intelliegence" and we can look people in the eye and interpret pain and loss and pull rabbits out of hats to make everything ok, but I'm certainly not using the part of my brain that helps me to develop ideas about living and breathing things that add to my conversation at the dinner table.

And now here I am.

I want to know about things. Feed me, World. Practical things about the world around us.

- Cue Music -

S.

Post One Hundred and Forty Five: Mount Glory Be.

New. Fresh. Different. I need a holiday. A big fat vacation with late nights and early mornings, just because I can. A coffee and chapter at 2PM and a nap to follow. Time for time to be whatever it wants to be. The reality of full time work needs to be balanced by the opportunity to receive new input from any which way. Working sucks, even when you dig what you do. Get it. Peace. S.

Post One Hundered and Forty Four: They Dig It.

Hey, read this!



Click on this. I don't know how to do links. That's how pro I am at life.

Post One Hundred and Forty Three: A Frank Discussion About It.

Sometimes, when an adult person works in seclusion, the mind can wander.

Sometimes, the adult mind wanders into an area that their parents minds shouldn't know about. Parents of mine take heed - I'm about to talk briefly but somewhat loosely (pun time) about adult sex and my general successes and failures concerning the act. Family folk; I am happy to assist you in continuing the delusion that I'm still NOT an adult, and thus a virgin destined for eventual romantic coupling with a handsome male olympic medalist.

As such, stop reading now Nanna. You'll be confused, but you should be proud. Really. Cheers.

For continuing readers, I realise that this is quite an aberrant topic for this blog. People working with dead people are conjectured to be respectful and wholly appropriate. And I am. At work and most public occasions. I do however think that in working with death, you should understand life. And life couldn't exist without sex and love and the amalgamation of those two fine ideas. Plus, switching the topic of taboo every now and again is thrilling.

Please note as a final stern warning that I don't think that cadavers are sexy. That's just gross.

So.

I've always been drastically fascinated with love and intimacy. This interest was and still remains to be personally peppered with intrigue, peculiarity and a general overriding apprehension. I was in grade two and a friend told me that when grown ups make a baby the male penis can get glued into the female vagina. Glued. From then on I've been amazed with what people do to each other when their bodies and their hearts mess around. I still wonder about the glue thing. You never know. Sperm IS weird.

I think that I'm pretty crap at 'it'. I'm just no good at flinging my body around with people that I can't relax with. Being a social retard, getting comfortable around attractive people in any occasion, clothed OR unclothed, is endlessly a struggle. And mustering up the energy to be intimate with people that I don't deem as attractive seems pretty stupid also.

And how does one stop themselves from falling in love with their bed partner post-coitus? I'm 27 and I'm yet to figure it out. Characters that have had the pleasure(?) of being intimate with me are probably duly intimate with the understanding that I get Disney ideas and altogether unrealistic delusions of romantic grandeur. It's a shame but I'll probably never be a true harlot.

If I ever have kids I'm going to be pretty honest with them about the whole sex caper. I'm going to tell them that I flunked the quiz, but obviously still managed to procreate anyway. I'd say to fall in love, any way possible, including the gay ways. I'd say to love more than one person at once, at least once. Why not? And I guess I'd tell them to ask their father about whether or not penises can get glued into vaginas.


S.

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