All Hallows

I’m waiting for the sun to rise.  A candle flickering on the table before me, a cigarette burning in my fingers.  The air is crisp and bracing and words are being elusive, so I will unbuckle the ol’ subconscious and allow it free range.  Wind is bothering the leaves, and they hiss in protest.  Scuddy gray clouds promise to steal the October sunshine, keeping that particular autumn gold all to themselves.

I find myself without the usual energy that I have at this time of year, and for today in particular.  I have no theory as to why, no culprit at which to point.  All that I do know is that I am letting my babies sleep, the innocent slumber of childhood that escaped me long ago.  The ghosts and pumpkins will be out in full force later, perhaps their youthful spirits will be contagious…

My usual array of my past funeral-related Halloween experiences ring hollow.  Disembodied voices calling my name late at night when I was “alone” and closing up the funeral home, the floorboard creaks of footsteps upstairs while I, the sole occupant, was downstairs, mysterious “employees” ignoring the doorknocks of the public at the empty funeral home entrance;  none of these stir the usual delicious magic that they ordinarily summon.

I am the Jack-O-Lantern this year, empty and cold, awaiting a candle stub and flame to bring me to life.

Who can help me find the matches?

 

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My god, I AM Hank Moody…

I am a daydreamer.  Unrepently so.  The bastard child of Walter Mitty and Hunter Thompson.  Often my flights of fancy take my into the characters of the TV shows that I watch…

But the character I find myself most wishing to be is Hank Moody from Californication.

For the unwashed among you who have never seen it, Hank is a writer who doesn’t write…much.  He favors black t-shirts and jeans, drives a older (yet inarguably cool) car with one operating headlight, has addiction issues (cigarettes, booze, women), a roller coaster relationship with his SO and offspring.

I sooo want to be him, in my day dreams at least.

For the few regular readers of this delightful virtual tome, you’ve come to realize that this blog is part fiction, part “fact-ion”  and part confessional.  Today’s offering would fall into that last part.

And writing is something I think about multiple times every. single. day.

But the Muse, fickle wench that she is, is apparently taking an extended holiday in Aruba, frolicking in the surf with Richard Branson and only occasionally stopping to turn, laugh at me and flip me the bird.

And that is one of the curses of we word-loving folk.  Passionate desire to write and only drips from the faucet.

But here I sit at the keyboard, still enjoying the last whiff of my most recent American Spirit cigarette, seeing the empties from last night in the recycle bin, and black t-shirt firmly in place.

Later, I will throw the two monkeys that I am half-responsible for creating into my ’99 Cadillac (with one working headlight) to drop them off at school for another day of edumacation (after a night of tears and raised voices among the entire family unit) and suddenly I realize that

my god, I AM Hank Moody.

And you know what, it ain’t that great.

 

 

 

 

A quiet Sunday

Ahhhh… a quiet Sunday at work.  Mother’s milk for an uneasy soul.

Last week was hellish.  H.E.L.L.I.S.H.  Busy at work.  In the midst of moving dwellings.

Friday was a non-stop rush of anxiety.  5 funerals going out, 3 of which were arrangements that I made.  No ego-speak here.  Just worrisome thoughts about what was happening on all of the other funerals that I arranged but wasn’t taking out.

“Did I order the vault?”

“Did the unable-to-answer-the-fucking-phone cemetery guy actually get the grave dug?”

Not to mention that is was supposed to be my day off.  And I was working.

Joy.

One of the families was one of those wonderfully inflexible, it’s-our-way-or-the-highway types.  Not willing to listen to me for advice (hey, what the fuck do I know, I’ve only been doing this for 20 years, right?)

Stressed me to to the limit.

AND I had a wedding to officiate on Saturday, and weddings always provide ripe fertilizer for the Garden of the Anxious.

Alas, all went well, including the wedding.  It was probably the shortest that I had ever done, and that done at request of the bride.

Short and simple, she said.

And that’s what she got.

And today, I’m just done.  Tired and done.  I didn’t even want to think about making another funeral arrangement today.

Or writing for that matter.   But I owe you dear readers words.

Even if it’s only me venting.

More quality stuff will follow, I promise.

Cheers to a quiet Sunday for all.