seriously am i the oNLY ONE WHO THINKS A BAND BREAKING UP AND THEN RELEASING A FINAL SONG CALLED FAKE YOUR DEATH IS JUST A TINY BIT SUSPICIOUS
Amateur. Philip K Dick wrote a book where a sci-fi author is going to be killed, but they will cover it up by continuing to publish books in his name. Sure, the quality will decline, but people will think he’s just lost it.
And this was published after he died.
I always thought when she was gone, I’d have a sense of her presence.
So many dreams. So much time away from her, with her still so real.
But now her absence is so total.
It’s OK in a way, because she was part gone for so long, and seeing that, the totality now is no shock.
Watching “Another Earth”. Barely understand it.
But I used to dream about traveling between parallel worlds. But I always knew how to find her, in each one.
Now she’s gone to another.
Asked me if I could see myself. I replied “Can you?” She nodded and smiled.
She’s not really gone. She visited a friend on the toilet, told her to give me a hug. She whispered in another’s ear, told her to bring a camera to the party.
So many weird things turn out to be true.
A couple days before she died, she asked me if I could “see myself”. I asked if she could see herself. She nodded and smiled.
I told my girl, 9, that I was going to put ashes on the driveway to keep people from slipping on the ice.
She checked to make sure I would not use mom’s ashes.
If you can’t laugh at that (afterwards), I don’t know why you even bother living. You can cry, too, at the same time if you like.
The whole journey has been so strange. Very few people can imagine what it’s been like. Even me.
It was a long, long time. It was strange and grueling, and very lonely.
Now what? I don’t have a sense of normal any more. Like a war vet. Maybe some good happens as a result, but no more or less than could have happened anyway. Mostly, suffering is just that: pain and loss. I have no wish to ennoble it. I will not praise it. It sucked.
So, pretending a bit, pushing forward, using what I learned about patience to make my way through the stupid stuff.
Best music for going through your dead wife’s stuff and finding a ticket from your nearly-happened first date: Popol Vuh, “In den Gärten Pharos”. Funereal trumped by cosmic.
Miss you, my dear.
I got the heaps of medical supplies out of my (our) bedroom.
Ostomy products, adult diapers and pads, dozens of pill bottles, gauze, adhesive sprays and pastes, non-latex gloves, box for sharps, etc, etc.
My girl noted an empty shelf and asked if we could make a shrine for mom.
Last night, dreamt of being with my wife’s body. I was cleaning her body and noting the exact location of the tattoos from her radiation treatments: 2 on each hip, about 2cm apart. Under the sheet, she was naked, and had been cleaned up. All the pouches and tape and gauze removed. All the damaged skin whole.
All the ostomies, scars, and fistulas were dried up like a newborn’s umbilical cord. Her pubic hair had grown back at the rate as if she were alive today. Other than a few blemishes, and being dead, she looked as healthy and intact as when I first met her.
This was not a sad dream. I was happy to see her.