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Six Feet Under
Mar. 24th, 2003 01:50 amI hope that when I die, someone stages an opera in my honour.
God.
That was intense.
And it reminds me all the more of my drive to get my mortuary science degree. I want to give people those kinds of moments. The perfect going away party. The penultimate in farewells.
I've already had mine.
When I thought I was leaving for the UK for a four month or so stay, my friends gave me two parties. One right after the other. We spent the first one in my favourite bar. Me, getting tanked and bleary eyed on endless whiskey sours and all the cherries I could possibly desire (Sarah is the best waitress in the world, she even bought two rounds for us that night). We played "Brother, My Cup is Empty" on the jukebox over and over, until the rest of the bar patrons began to look badly on us.
We ushered in the evening with singing and kisses, then saw last call out the door. With the group of us spilling onto the street in song and alcohol smeared blur. We ended up at a park, in the rain. I perched on the back of a bench and felt the world changing shape around me.
I was silvered in the waning moonlight.
I was golden.
I never felt so many different and warring emotions coursing through my veins. Love of too many and fear of the unknown. Regret, for the first time. And self hatred. Pain and milksweet sorrow. I fell on the knife.
I was a bundle of kindling twigs. I was the spark to set them aflame. I stepped into my future, but refused to let go of my past. Everything, everyone was dear. I wanted to leave them all behind and I never wanted to leave.
That one perfect moment.
The next day, my throat was on fire from all the cigarettes and whiskey. I felt scoured smooth from shots of bourbon. I was the drowning victim, found face up to the sun with reeds twined in her drifting hair and clear water in her lungs. It was a new day and I watched myself open my eyes under the firey hand and fingers of Jack Daniels.
I sat on the curb next to the Cheshire Cat and stupidly asked him why he kept pulling from me, though I knew the answer. Off limits now, he didn't want to touch me. And the only person I could ever gain reassurance from, him, was the only one I couldn't go to. He was verboten. Forever, now.
A twisting in my breast. The knife, again.
And even in those hurting moments, those cold and sick times?
I was perfect.
Those two days were the funeral for the girl I was once was. Requiem and memoriam held in the ivoryhard hands of God. All we needed to complete the moment was calla lilies and prayer cards.
My going away. My send off. My farewell.
I arrived back home, a handful of days later, a different person. The girl who sang to the stars and poured whiskey down her throat is gone.
And a better funeral could never have been held.
The Queen is dead.
Long live the Queen.
God.
That was intense.
And it reminds me all the more of my drive to get my mortuary science degree. I want to give people those kinds of moments. The perfect going away party. The penultimate in farewells.
I've already had mine.
When I thought I was leaving for the UK for a four month or so stay, my friends gave me two parties. One right after the other. We spent the first one in my favourite bar. Me, getting tanked and bleary eyed on endless whiskey sours and all the cherries I could possibly desire (Sarah is the best waitress in the world, she even bought two rounds for us that night). We played "Brother, My Cup is Empty" on the jukebox over and over, until the rest of the bar patrons began to look badly on us.
We ushered in the evening with singing and kisses, then saw last call out the door. With the group of us spilling onto the street in song and alcohol smeared blur. We ended up at a park, in the rain. I perched on the back of a bench and felt the world changing shape around me.
I was silvered in the waning moonlight.
I was golden.
I never felt so many different and warring emotions coursing through my veins. Love of too many and fear of the unknown. Regret, for the first time. And self hatred. Pain and milksweet sorrow. I fell on the knife.
I was a bundle of kindling twigs. I was the spark to set them aflame. I stepped into my future, but refused to let go of my past. Everything, everyone was dear. I wanted to leave them all behind and I never wanted to leave.
That one perfect moment.
The next day, my throat was on fire from all the cigarettes and whiskey. I felt scoured smooth from shots of bourbon. I was the drowning victim, found face up to the sun with reeds twined in her drifting hair and clear water in her lungs. It was a new day and I watched myself open my eyes under the firey hand and fingers of Jack Daniels.
I sat on the curb next to the Cheshire Cat and stupidly asked him why he kept pulling from me, though I knew the answer. Off limits now, he didn't want to touch me. And the only person I could ever gain reassurance from, him, was the only one I couldn't go to. He was verboten. Forever, now.
A twisting in my breast. The knife, again.
And even in those hurting moments, those cold and sick times?
I was perfect.
Those two days were the funeral for the girl I was once was. Requiem and memoriam held in the ivoryhard hands of God. All we needed to complete the moment was calla lilies and prayer cards.
My going away. My send off. My farewell.
I arrived back home, a handful of days later, a different person. The girl who sang to the stars and poured whiskey down her throat is gone.
And a better funeral could never have been held.
The Queen is dead.
Long live the Queen.
