Do forgive my not posting anything in quite some time. Things have been quite horrid, here. Some of you may not know that my father passed away on May 7th, a day before his 34th wedding anniversary, with mom. And mom was hospitalized on Sunday, given her dangerously low potassium and low blood pressure. She got home today, but they're still trying to figure if it would have anything to do with her kidneys. Which would make sense, considering her mother's kidney failure, and my own kidney disease, from Lupus.
On this late afternoon, I wish to write about... grief. Pardon my damper on your happiness, but it's something so elemental, to all species. It signifies our capacity for predisposing the primordial, taking it, and making a bounty of its... nothingness. We predispose it to its own mask, which is nothing but the mask of our fate. A sweet, palpable nothing, the on children(s) lips the singing carries a tale confused but pain still clear, the way clear water carries the strain of love long past and leaves it unsaid. A lullaby I included in one of my earlier blogs.
When my father died, I was certain I'd grieve more. I did bawl when I saw him in his coffin for the first time. I did tremble when a Deacon we know gave a touching sermon at his wake, seeing so many people, there, that he impacted, seeing his knee board on display, which many mistook for a surf board. Mind you, he adored surfing, but in these later years knee boarding became his capacity.
I do not want to disconcert any of my readers, if you still exist, or frighten you, shoo you away. But, grief, for me, involves my illnesses. Mostly the depressive psychosis. I am two entities; one, adoring, kind, soiled only in the purity of my imagination. The other, evil, vile, pure only in the soiling of my imagination. I'm quite frightened, readers, because I feel the second bit overwhelming. It has swallowed me these past few weeks. I won;t even pursue the voices I hear, but, my sister told me, maybe it's a mental deviant's way of grieving. (Those really weren't her words, she said something more along the lines of a mentally ill individual's capacity for grief, involves that, deception of the mind).
My experience with grief follows: it is all deception. My mind deceives me into feeling happy, into laughing at things I shouldn't laugh (at), and feel quite guilty laughing over. All I can make of this, is the way that grief has a way of predisposing us, taking us, making us into sources of shadow. We might become delirious, delusional, disarrayed, but all of us, in some way, find our own "sun." Our own blond-black assassin, killing every inch of its presence in the way our shadows want to thrive. So what are we to do? Die, each day, because life is nothing but the drag death wears to make it (life) laugh?
I don't know; I'm not certain. I believe what I've found, through all of this, is that my answers are kaput. Have always been that way. As have my questions. Not grasping even nothing, with expressionless much chagrined. Paragon nonchaloir. That is, always has been, I. I've never been more confused by my "mind," but must focus it, somehow, on writing, and Wilde's trial(s), on Soren's proclamation, purity of heart is to will one thing. So what is it I'm willing? A body that will not die, but a presence that always will *die* in its own blond remembrance. The remembrance of things past is really an amnesiac; all our lives are one amnesiac's plunder. And the plunder is this:
the body, the ghost and holy host wrapped into one unholy trinity.