funeral for a friend
The lovely thing about keeping a journal on something like this is, I can write like it's a private diary, but also imagine that I have an audience.
As a kid, I often imagined faking my own death. I spent little time imagining the logistics of the death-faking, the real payoff was stealthily attending my funeral. Does anyone show up? What do they talk about? What do they say about me?
As a kid, I would never tell anyone about this morbid self-indulgence. As an adult, I know this was not terribly uncommon.
(I keep starting to write here and then erasing and staring off into space looking for the words I want to use.)
I want to write about Jon's funeral.
I took the chinatown bus to philly. I had to leave really early in the morning, and I had to really seriously drag Kitt out of bed to drive me to the bus station. I bought two tall cans of keystone ice while I waited for the bus, stashed them in my backpack. I don't remember the ride there, but I do know that once we pass the airport, I start looking for the skyline.
We all met up at the shop, Jim and Angela and I, probably Andi and Matt. We rode way up to north Jersey in someone's car, all just staring out the windows. I don't think we talked.
I remember holding onto Howie, actually he was probably holding on to me, I was shaking and it was hard to breathe.
Jon looked like a latex mask of himself, very still and dusted with powder. Too calm. The tattoos on his hands looked grey. His fingers were always kinda red and chapped from over-washing, but here they looked um, unnaturally healthy.
I'm stopping now. More later.
As a kid, I often imagined faking my own death. I spent little time imagining the logistics of the death-faking, the real payoff was stealthily attending my funeral. Does anyone show up? What do they talk about? What do they say about me?
As a kid, I would never tell anyone about this morbid self-indulgence. As an adult, I know this was not terribly uncommon.
(I keep starting to write here and then erasing and staring off into space looking for the words I want to use.)
I want to write about Jon's funeral.
I took the chinatown bus to philly. I had to leave really early in the morning, and I had to really seriously drag Kitt out of bed to drive me to the bus station. I bought two tall cans of keystone ice while I waited for the bus, stashed them in my backpack. I don't remember the ride there, but I do know that once we pass the airport, I start looking for the skyline.
We all met up at the shop, Jim and Angela and I, probably Andi and Matt. We rode way up to north Jersey in someone's car, all just staring out the windows. I don't think we talked.
I remember holding onto Howie, actually he was probably holding on to me, I was shaking and it was hard to breathe.
Jon looked like a latex mask of himself, very still and dusted with powder. Too calm. The tattoos on his hands looked grey. His fingers were always kinda red and chapped from over-washing, but here they looked um, unnaturally healthy.
I'm stopping now. More later.