Mystic Metals Body Jewelry
My grandmother is dead, and I'm not ok with it. Recently, God called her home, and the wound of her loss has not yet begun to scar. She was the most beautiful woman to live, and the world is less for her death; though heaven is greater for it. I will be thirty-four years old in March, and her death was the first death in my reality with someone with whom I shared blood. A blessing and a curse, to be sure. Cancer is a hell of a thing. But then again, so it the biology of people. I appreciate the support from those close to me, though much of what can be said I typically don't respond to very well. 'Death is not the end, but only the beginning' is a wonderfully simple bandage on the living, or yet to die. The sentiment helps, to be sure, but still leaves a wanting for something. The problem is, what is that something? I suppose were that question answered, then the mystery of death would be less of an enigma. And therefore less special. I am not angry, which is odd for me since I am typically angry toward anything beyond my control, but I am confused; and I believe that I am a changed thing now from which I don't anticipate a recovery.
So if I'm a dick to you, I apologize in advance. Death is an odd exposing thing of selfishness. When someone dies, regardless of one's relationship with that person, one tends to immediately reflect on himself. Of course there is consideration for the dead; we'd be heartless cocksuckers if we didn't and the most of us are not that, but our quick following though seems to be about self. I am vexed as to manage my selfishness in the context of the loss of a great woman.
This blog will likely not be about body mod, by the way.
My grandmother looked good in the casket. I've been to funerals where the dead looks like a clown, or some reality star whore who doesn't know the limits of tanning or makeup. Grandma was not that. She looked as beautiful as she had always. Despite the wretched murder that rotted her inside. But again, my thoughts to myself. My thoughts to my body and my relationship with it. My thoughts to my own rotting and perpetual dying, as we all do once God's breath creates life within our carbon meat sack machines. My thoughts to how much I hate my body and what it has done to my mind. I think of my attempts to usurp the control it took from me though tattoo and piercing. Paint the walls. I think of how I feel as if I pilot my body, that it is an automaton moving and doing by my request. But one then must argue that if I am not my body, if my body is a decomposing vehicle under suggestion of my actual self, then what is that actual self? Were they two separate things, then with whom did I sit in the funeral home? If that is not my grandmother and it is just the once living machine she used to interact and communicate with others, then why am I here staring at a wasted and used thing? Is that the best our simple minds can do; that we can only comprehend that the machine moves by some amorphous suggestion, and therefore our only connection to that suggestion is the machine itself? When I knelt and spoke to the machine, did the pilot hear me?
Everyone grieves differently, I have been repeatedly told during the last two weeks. My grief comes in silence and loneliness. I don't want to be around the living when I celebrate the dead, however, by design human beings have adopted a sense of community by way of the dead. You gather, watch others weep, then put the machine into the dirt and go eat sandwiches. You seem to talk about the dead as an icebreaker. They arrived at my house, got their sandwiches and potato salad and melon balls, and said some things to one another about grandma. All glowing, of course. Never a bad word could be spoken about my angel grandmother, but even if it were possible, no one speaks ill of the dead when the dead has been rested. As should be the case. But afterward, there is normal talk and conversation. Movies and news and video games and sports and politics. Normal things. How was work, how's the weather, how's anything but what just happened to us as a group. It is awkward and uncomfortable, and though I love my family very much, I wanted them out of my house. Take your sandwich to go; I need to grieve.
That isn't my role, however. My role is to be strong for my mother, who lost her mother to the machine's death. My role is to hug, say very little, hand her tissues. I failed miserably in my task. I am not ok with that. My grieving comes later, but I am unsure when is appropriate. Grandma's leaving reality will never be ok, it'll never be a content place to be; this place that is bereft of her. So when is it time to grieve? I am a rule oriented individual. Everything is black and white, and everything is right and wrong. Everything has one correct answer. Pass or fail. There is no room for grey. What are the rules here? What is the process. There is none. In place of process, we have ritual, to which I respond greatly. But when the ritual ends, the sandwiches are eaten, and everyone has left my house and I am in the lonely space I wanted to begin with, how do I grieve? I don't know how to do it, and I am unsure that I am permitted so to do regardless. It is my mother's place to grieve, and she has earned the right so to do. I am unsure there is room for me to as well. Is it appropriate? I am supposed to be Atlas holding the rest so that the rest can worry of other things. Does Atlas grieve?
Herein lies the selfishness that I am having difficulty shedding. I have spent a thousand words here talking about myself when the world's most beautiful and caring and elegant woman lies in a hole. How is that proper and appropriate? One ought never be selfish. That's a rule. But I am paralyzed to do otherwise. It's terribly frustrating, and I am not ok with it. I miss my grandmother. Stay beautiful, kids.
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