Death and Dancing . . . Far More Helpful Than Dickens.
Boy, I sure am posting a lot.
It has been a day for mailbox-related crap. Got a form rejection from Realms of Fantasy. Blah. I guess that story goes back out tomorrow.
Also, my Amazon used copy of On Death And Dying arrived. I do not recall ever wanting to read a book less. Even in school when I had to finish Great Expectations and cried because I was so bored.
I'm sure it will be helpful, far more helpful than Dickens. But I'm not pleased to have to be reading it. I guess I'd better, because I've got another one coming in the mail. Yes, I'm caving in on the self-help thing. I'd read anything at this point if I thought it would help me figure out what is going on in my own head.
Also, I am trying to get the notification letters put together for the Great Necklace Project, but it's made harder by the fact that I don't know some of the people on the list very well at all, and I actively dislike some of them. Also, some of them may not have been told that Mom is sick yet, and this letter will be the first they hear about it.
I am having to write to people I barely know, give them bad news, then ask them for something. It stinks.
Oh, and the really awful part? I have to write to my beloved Uncle Jim who is, himself, dying of cancer, and ask if he will send something. This is a man whose un-sentimentality and irreverence beggar even my father's. Pile on that the fact that Jim's dying, too, and I just don't know how to approach it. On a normal day, I could summon up enough spitfire and sass to manage the feat, but I am not feeling snarky these days . . . I am feeling weepy, sentimental, and twitchy. I have to customze each letter based on what relation they are to us, what name they know Mom/me/my sister under, when they last saw us, and whether they have heard, and I can only do about three at a time before I have to quit and go do something else.
I hate this more than I can say, but it will be a beautiful, beautiful thing when it's done. It really will.
I guess that's a lesson . . . we can make things of great beauty from pain and ugliness.
I also hate that life gives you lessons like that, and that part of my brain feels like it has to point this stuff out. . . . Yes, I'm talking about you, Mr. Willowsong. I really don't want to learn anything about the human condition right now. I'll just acknowledge it and file it away and process it later.
In other news . . . I feel like I should wait until it's concrete to mention it, but I thought you all might be proud of me. I'm probably going to be soloing when we dance at Oktoberfest.
Since it very well might be my Mom's last chance to see me perform at a show, I thought I maybe should take the chance to shake it in front of everybody and their monkey, so I nerved myself and asked She Who Must Be Obeyed if I could maybe have the stage for a couple minutes.
To my utter surprise, she agreed. So I have it, and I can do anything I want. In front of guys wearing chicken hats!
Yikes!
I'll probably do one of our established choreographies rather than come up with something new. But . . . hey . . . me, dancing, alone! Wow! Who'da thunk it?
I'm so excited about it, but at the same time, I'm so very sad. Because right now, everything feels like an ending. Does that make sense? Fuck. I can't even eat a candy bar without getting teary because I suddenly realize it's my mom's favorite kind.
That's going to be the trick when I perform . . . not bursting into tears. It's why I'm kind of hoping I can learn the rest of the veil choreography in time . . . it's a sad song, so it won't look odd if I begin to cry. If I started leaking in the middle of a crappy Arab pop song it would look like Maggie had forced me onstage by threatening to kill my puppy or something.
But it's a big step and I want Mom to see me take it. I always said I'd be a "real dancer" when I danced alone. And Oktoberfest is the biggest show of the year. The audience is typically between 150 and 200 people, which is really a whole lot more than it sounds like when they are all looking Right At You. If I'm ever going to have an attack of nerves and quietly puke in the grass behind the tent, this is going to be the time.
We'll see how I do dancing in front of Luke tonight at drum practice, I guess. I have his tousled little number this time . . . I'm going to assume he'll be there, which means I'll put on eyeliner and lipstick and actually shave my armpits, thereby assuring that he won't come.
With all that, I believe it is time for me to go and accomplish something. Like, say, writing another three letters. If I can mail them tomorrow, I can get to the heartrending task of sorting through the responses that much sooner. Yay.
But dancing will cheer me up. It always does. It, too, is far more helpful than Dickens.
link
It has been a day for mailbox-related crap. Got a form rejection from Realms of Fantasy. Blah. I guess that story goes back out tomorrow.
Also, my Amazon used copy of On Death And Dying arrived. I do not recall ever wanting to read a book less. Even in school when I had to finish Great Expectations and cried because I was so bored.
I'm sure it will be helpful, far more helpful than Dickens. But I'm not pleased to have to be reading it. I guess I'd better, because I've got another one coming in the mail. Yes, I'm caving in on the self-help thing. I'd read anything at this point if I thought it would help me figure out what is going on in my own head.
Also, I am trying to get the notification letters put together for the Great Necklace Project, but it's made harder by the fact that I don't know some of the people on the list very well at all, and I actively dislike some of them. Also, some of them may not have been told that Mom is sick yet, and this letter will be the first they hear about it.
I am having to write to people I barely know, give them bad news, then ask them for something. It stinks.
Oh, and the really awful part? I have to write to my beloved Uncle Jim who is, himself, dying of cancer, and ask if he will send something. This is a man whose un-sentimentality and irreverence beggar even my father's. Pile on that the fact that Jim's dying, too, and I just don't know how to approach it. On a normal day, I could summon up enough spitfire and sass to manage the feat, but I am not feeling snarky these days . . . I am feeling weepy, sentimental, and twitchy. I have to customze each letter based on what relation they are to us, what name they know Mom/me/my sister under, when they last saw us, and whether they have heard, and I can only do about three at a time before I have to quit and go do something else.
I hate this more than I can say, but it will be a beautiful, beautiful thing when it's done. It really will.
I guess that's a lesson . . . we can make things of great beauty from pain and ugliness.
I also hate that life gives you lessons like that, and that part of my brain feels like it has to point this stuff out. . . . Yes, I'm talking about you, Mr. Willowsong. I really don't want to learn anything about the human condition right now. I'll just acknowledge it and file it away and process it later.
In other news . . . I feel like I should wait until it's concrete to mention it, but I thought you all might be proud of me. I'm probably going to be soloing when we dance at Oktoberfest.
Since it very well might be my Mom's last chance to see me perform at a show, I thought I maybe should take the chance to shake it in front of everybody and their monkey, so I nerved myself and asked She Who Must Be Obeyed if I could maybe have the stage for a couple minutes.
To my utter surprise, she agreed. So I have it, and I can do anything I want. In front of guys wearing chicken hats!
Yikes!
I'll probably do one of our established choreographies rather than come up with something new. But . . . hey . . . me, dancing, alone! Wow! Who'da thunk it?
I'm so excited about it, but at the same time, I'm so very sad. Because right now, everything feels like an ending. Does that make sense? Fuck. I can't even eat a candy bar without getting teary because I suddenly realize it's my mom's favorite kind.
That's going to be the trick when I perform . . . not bursting into tears. It's why I'm kind of hoping I can learn the rest of the veil choreography in time . . . it's a sad song, so it won't look odd if I begin to cry. If I started leaking in the middle of a crappy Arab pop song it would look like Maggie had forced me onstage by threatening to kill my puppy or something.
But it's a big step and I want Mom to see me take it. I always said I'd be a "real dancer" when I danced alone. And Oktoberfest is the biggest show of the year. The audience is typically between 150 and 200 people, which is really a whole lot more than it sounds like when they are all looking Right At You. If I'm ever going to have an attack of nerves and quietly puke in the grass behind the tent, this is going to be the time.
We'll see how I do dancing in front of Luke tonight at drum practice, I guess. I have his tousled little number this time . . . I'm going to assume he'll be there, which means I'll put on eyeliner and lipstick and actually shave my armpits, thereby assuring that he won't come.
With all that, I believe it is time for me to go and accomplish something. Like, say, writing another three letters. If I can mail them tomorrow, I can get to the heartrending task of sorting through the responses that much sooner. Yay.
But dancing will cheer me up. It always does. It, too, is far more helpful than Dickens.
link