This is Brenda and Nate's biggest and most horrifyingly amazing fight. It is a kind of monster, all flesh gouging fangs and claws. It is the kind of fight that owns you, that becomes epic and spills out every part of your insides until you're left with the bloody guts to clean up. It is full of truthful hateful accusations. It's the only thing that's comforting me today. Let it comfort you too. Other people, even if they're fictional, have it worse than we do:
Friday, February 19, 2010
Best Fight Ever
So while the show may hold the theme of hope at its heart, it also holds immense pain, sadness, rage, fear and grief. I'm not having the best day today, and as always, when life is as disappointingly tragic as it so often is (for the existentialist in me), I can find a certain amount of gratification in HBO. In other words, there is a 6FU scene to go with every occasion.
This is Brenda and Nate's biggest and most horrifyingly amazing fight. It is a kind of monster, all flesh gouging fangs and claws. It is the kind of fight that owns you, that becomes epic and spills out every part of your insides until you're left with the bloody guts to clean up. It is full of truthful hateful accusations. It's the only thing that's comforting me today. Let it comfort you too. Other people, even if they're fictional, have it worse than we do:
This is Brenda and Nate's biggest and most horrifyingly amazing fight. It is a kind of monster, all flesh gouging fangs and claws. It is the kind of fight that owns you, that becomes epic and spills out every part of your insides until you're left with the bloody guts to clean up. It is full of truthful hateful accusations. It's the only thing that's comforting me today. Let it comfort you too. Other people, even if they're fictional, have it worse than we do:
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Why I Can't Let Anything Go
So, this is my favourite 6FU scene of all time. It seems impossible to pick just one scene from this show, since there are so many that I find poignant and/or hilarious, but this one has always felt like the epitome of what the show is really about. Yes, there is pain. Yes, each of us is walking around bleeding and full of baggage that we often feel we can't get away from. Yes, it is so incredibly frustrating to feel trapped inside a particular emotional response to that pain. It is so very difficult to move forward. But (and here's the kicker), we can. And what if it really is that simple.
(And in case you were wondering, yes, a dear friend did call and sing I'm a lonely Little Petunia...to me on my voice mail. She just gets me.)
I wrote this poem a long time ago:
Why I Can’t Let Anything Go
because of genetics because it’s a family trait because
my parents don’t help by never saying no
because my best friend says she likes me better
this way because I just met you three years ago
and we’ve barely scratched the surface because high school
because pizza and beer is all we need
to get along because life is made up of perfect moments
and spending years recovering from them because my dog
can’t hear me yelling because the best and worst piece
of advice you ever gave me was to do what I love because
I got to keep the tiny blue sweater your daughter wore
because there is a picture of seven of us on a mug
on my desk because my turtle died because my gerbil
died because my dog will die someday soon and when
that happens my family will be torn apart because
it’s never been in my nature to live in the present
because every time I meet someone I spend
the first six months wishing they were
someone else because I left all my furniture and
my fish in someone else’s apartment because maybe
he and I were never meant to mean much of anything
because I may miss you more now then when
you’re gone because the movies I watch make me
believe I’m doing everything all wrong but my favourite
TV shows convince me I’m right because we don’t drive
to see the stars anymore because sometimes I miss
my dish rack and shower curtain because I switched
to a single bed because it’s always over long before
I’m ready because once is never enough
We all have trouble with letting go of our attachments; those to people, places, memories and things. We cling to ideas and emotions and our own bad patterns. We are all afraid of change, even if that change could do us a world of good. We are terrified of the unknown. What I love about this scene is how much hope lies in it. The idea that we have the power to change our situation. We can nurture ourselves and our emotions, but also decide when to let it go. It is all within us. We don't have to look outside of ourselves for everything. There is comfort in that, and in the realization that there is control in letting go of control, and strength in allowing ourselves to stop fighting.
I think this scene beautifully articulates the core message behind the show. Hope.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I'm a Lonely Little Petunia
Today I'm trying to write poetry. Basically it just makes me want to cry. So I thought I'd post this little video, in the hopes that someone will sing me this song today:
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sketches of Light and Dark
This is a fun early sketch of the main title theme of 6FU.
Some crazy bizarre differences that I have to say I'm glad they changed for the actual title sequence. In the end product I love the attention to detail with the embalming fluid going into the body, watching the levels of fluid move down, the flowers dying, and the cotton ball being brushed over the eyebrow of the dead person's face. As well, beginning with the crow and tree and ending with the crow and tree has some nice symbolism.
And how everything blows out to white at the end. This happens in every episode; every time someone dies the show fades to white. When it cuts to a new scene (or commercial), it fades to white. When each show ends it fades to white. Which has lead me to wonder about our obvious fascination with white and black, the two colours that are not even technically colours, that represent light and dark, life and death. But in some cases, life is represented as a dark reality and death is the serene afterlife.
The scene where Nate buries Lisa is poignant because of its play with dark and light. There's the white of the headlights, Nate's shirt, the body bag (which has always struck me as interesting since I always think of body bags as being black). Then there's the black of the night sky, the darkness of the grave Nate digs, the silhouette of the Joshua tree in the background. And towards the end, the light of an early dawn.
There are the obvious reasons for the choice made to have the scenes and episodes fade to white (especially right after someone has died). When you die you supposedly go towards some kind of light. You move upward, towards the fat fluffy clouds, the pearly white gates of heaven (if you believe in that sort of thing). You are relieved of the burden of dark reality. It's all very dramatic.
We are manipulated by colours. We can't help but attach emotion to, not only colours, but different shades of colours. We have different names for blue, like baby blue, navy blue, sky blue. These evoke an automatic emotional response. The sun is yellow and warm, therefore yellow is a colour that makes us feel warm and cozy. Vegetables are green, so green represents a healthy crunchy goodness for our bodies. Okay, that's maybe not an emotional response, but associations with food can apply as well. There are times where I've watched a horse grazing on green grass in the middle of a pasture on a hot sunny day and I can hear the horse's teeth chomping and grinding away, turning that grass into a florescent frothy paste and all I want to do is get down on my hands and knees and eat that grass.
We seem to give colours these meanings that aren't intrinsic. Red represents passion, strength, intensity, and is, perhaps, slightly dangerous. Pink is love and romance. We specify and attribute certain colours to different holidays and seasons. Orange is obviously Thanksgiving (or Halloween, whichever you decide to celebrate as your seasonal holiday). Red and green are Christmas. Pink is Valentine's day. We have visual cues in our world for our emotional state.
A while ago I started working on two poems, one called Sketches of White the other called Sketches of Black. I found definitions for each colour and worked with those as found poems. Then I incorporated lines from the definitions and wrote poems around those. Here are the found poems and the excerpts from these pieces.
Sketches of White (excerpt)
having the colour of fresh snow
or milk, which results from the reflection of
nearly all visible wavelengths, belonging
to people with naturally pale skin, unblemished,
especially in character, heated to such a high
degree that the substance turns white in colour,
the transparent liquid that surrounds the yolk
of an egg and turns white when the egg is cooked,
the part of the eyeball surrounding the iris, the white
outermost ring of an archery target or a shot
that lands in it, a white or light-coloured piece
or set of pieces in a game such as in chess or
checkers, or the player using them, a butterfly
that is predominantly white in colour, to make
or leave blank spaces in something, especially
something printed, to become or cause something
to become white, relating to a pure musical tone
that lacks warmth, colour and resonance.
The light that comes through the crack in the door,
the squares of the screen window, the part of the eyeball
surrounding the iris the slit between your legs, it bends
finds itself in compromising positions. The petals
of an orchid, velvet to the touch. Cuticles. The wind
is white. It blows knives against your cheeks. You used
to send my family sheets and pillowcases, starched stiff
Sketches of Black (excerpt)
being the color of coal or carbon
with no light
served without adding milk or cream
dealing with very serious things in a humorous
Some crazy bizarre differences that I have to say I'm glad they changed for the actual title sequence. In the end product I love the attention to detail with the embalming fluid going into the body, watching the levels of fluid move down, the flowers dying, and the cotton ball being brushed over the eyebrow of the dead person's face. As well, beginning with the crow and tree and ending with the crow and tree has some nice symbolism.
And how everything blows out to white at the end. This happens in every episode; every time someone dies the show fades to white. When it cuts to a new scene (or commercial), it fades to white. When each show ends it fades to white. Which has lead me to wonder about our obvious fascination with white and black, the two colours that are not even technically colours, that represent light and dark, life and death. But in some cases, life is represented as a dark reality and death is the serene afterlife.
The scene where Nate buries Lisa is poignant because of its play with dark and light. There's the white of the headlights, Nate's shirt, the body bag (which has always struck me as interesting since I always think of body bags as being black). Then there's the black of the night sky, the darkness of the grave Nate digs, the silhouette of the Joshua tree in the background. And towards the end, the light of an early dawn.
There are the obvious reasons for the choice made to have the scenes and episodes fade to white (especially right after someone has died). When you die you supposedly go towards some kind of light. You move upward, towards the fat fluffy clouds, the pearly white gates of heaven (if you believe in that sort of thing). You are relieved of the burden of dark reality. It's all very dramatic.
We are manipulated by colours. We can't help but attach emotion to, not only colours, but different shades of colours. We have different names for blue, like baby blue, navy blue, sky blue. These evoke an automatic emotional response. The sun is yellow and warm, therefore yellow is a colour that makes us feel warm and cozy. Vegetables are green, so green represents a healthy crunchy goodness for our bodies. Okay, that's maybe not an emotional response, but associations with food can apply as well. There are times where I've watched a horse grazing on green grass in the middle of a pasture on a hot sunny day and I can hear the horse's teeth chomping and grinding away, turning that grass into a florescent frothy paste and all I want to do is get down on my hands and knees and eat that grass.
We seem to give colours these meanings that aren't intrinsic. Red represents passion, strength, intensity, and is, perhaps, slightly dangerous. Pink is love and romance. We specify and attribute certain colours to different holidays and seasons. Orange is obviously Thanksgiving (or Halloween, whichever you decide to celebrate as your seasonal holiday). Red and green are Christmas. Pink is Valentine's day. We have visual cues in our world for our emotional state.
A while ago I started working on two poems, one called Sketches of White the other called Sketches of Black. I found definitions for each colour and worked with those as found poems. Then I incorporated lines from the definitions and wrote poems around those. Here are the found poems and the excerpts from these pieces.
Sketches of White (excerpt)
having the colour of fresh snow
or milk, which results from the reflection of
nearly all visible wavelengths, belonging
to people with naturally pale skin, unblemished,
especially in character, heated to such a high
degree that the substance turns white in colour,
the transparent liquid that surrounds the yolk
of an egg and turns white when the egg is cooked,
the part of the eyeball surrounding the iris, the white
outermost ring of an archery target or a shot
that lands in it, a white or light-coloured piece
or set of pieces in a game such as in chess or
checkers, or the player using them, a butterfly
that is predominantly white in colour, to make
or leave blank spaces in something, especially
something printed, to become or cause something
to become white, relating to a pure musical tone
that lacks warmth, colour and resonance.
The light that comes through the crack in the door,
the squares of the screen window, the part of the eyeball
surrounding the iris the slit between your legs, it bends
finds itself in compromising positions. The petals
of an orchid, velvet to the touch. Cuticles. The wind
is white. It blows knives against your cheeks. You used
to send my family sheets and pillowcases, starched stiff
as quills. The tiles of your kitchen, the long thin cigarettes
you would smoke. Your hair, a silvery ashen disk circling
your head. Halo. the white outermost ring of an archery
target or a shot that lands in it
Even at night there is white in the streets, headlights
Even at night there is white in the streets, headlights
are a blur in puddles, bags people are carrying, the heaviness
that settles in all of us.
Sketches of Black (excerpt)
being the color of coal or carbon
with no light
served without adding milk or cream
dealing with very serious things in a humorous
and often macabre way
carried out in the utmost secrecy
filled with anger or hostility
covered with mud, soil, or any other
carried out in the utmost secrecy
filled with anger or hostility
covered with mud, soil, or any other
dark substance
causing or associated with severely
bad conditions or misfortune
extremely dishonourable and deserving the most
extremely dishonourable and deserving the most
serious criticism
evil, or associated with evil
a color value that has no hue as a result of the
evil, or associated with evil
a color value that has no hue as a result of the
absorption of nearly all light
from all visible wavelengths
a pigment or dye that is the color of carbon or coal
fabric or clothing that is black in color
complete darkness
a black piece in a game such as chess or checkers
a player in games such as chess or checkers who is
from all visible wavelengths
a pigment or dye that is the color of carbon or coal
fabric or clothing that is black in color
complete darkness
a black piece in a game such as chess or checkers
a player in games such as chess or checkers who is
playing with the black pieces
a black ball in snooker, which is the last ball to be sunk
Perhaps this makes me evil,
or associated with evil, and the heart that I swore
was an accurate compass, weeding me along
the bottom of the ocean, guiding my hands to new
invertebrate beasts, had been passed down through a
generation whose colour value has no hue
as a result of the absorption of nearly all light
a black ball in snooker, which is the last ball to be sunk
Perhaps this makes me evil,
or associated with evil, and the heart that I swore
was an accurate compass, weeding me along
the bottom of the ocean, guiding my hands to new
invertebrate beasts, had been passed down through a
generation whose colour value has no hue
as a result of the absorption of nearly all light
from all visible wavelengths,
a pigment or dye.
That is the colour of carbon or coal,
the burn that settles in pocked ashes, or a drag queen’s
sequined feathery eyelashes. Don’t touch me
was all you mumbled when I reached for your hand.
a pigment or dye.
That is the colour of carbon or coal,
the burn that settles in pocked ashes, or a drag queen’s
sequined feathery eyelashes. Don’t touch me
was all you mumbled when I reached for your hand.
Between us, the hood of the car, space coloured by
the complete darkness, by a black
piece in a game such as chess or checkers. Always a player
in games such as chess or checkers, who is playing
with the black pieces.
Snake eyes, rattle in the night, screech of
rubber smoking the pavement, and your foot
piece in a game such as chess or checkers. Always a player
in games such as chess or checkers, who is playing
with the black pieces.
Snake eyes, rattle in the night, screech of
rubber smoking the pavement, and your foot
on the gas. There is no time left to know you.
A black ring. A target. A black ball in snooker.
Too many accidents cause us to be weary. To remain
A black ring. A target. A black ball in snooker.
Too many accidents cause us to be weary. To remain
wary. the last ball to be sunk.
Black and white, dark and light. These two colours are how we make sense of the world, how we order it out of chaos, how we make choices and how we defend those choices. How we shape the world into sense. Even those of us who continually see the grey in ideas and situations, can't help but stumble into a more confined territory. And since black and white aren't actually considered colours, we are essentially colour blind.
Black and white, dark and light. These two colours are how we make sense of the world, how we order it out of chaos, how we make choices and how we defend those choices. How we shape the world into sense. Even those of us who continually see the grey in ideas and situations, can't help but stumble into a more confined territory. And since black and white aren't actually considered colours, we are essentially colour blind.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Frying Pan Theories
An old friend sent me a lovely message a few days ago. She had recently read my blog and informed me that she, too, had dreams about death on a regular basis and determined that it wasn't really a surprise if she was watching a show like 6FU. She also mentioned this:
"Also, I've been thinking about the death when the woman kills her husband with the frying pan and *I* think that she sat down and ate *her* breakfast after she kills him instead of sitting down and eating *his* breakfast. Because I was watching it the other day and it struck me that the chick was only making one serving of everything, that she wasn't making a place setting for herself. Frankly, I think that's more awesome."
SO right you are! Thanks R, for pointing that out to me. My thought had always been that she was making his breakfast because she had already eaten something herself earlier on in the morning and that she made the same thing for him every morning and was finally just sick of hearing his obnoxious nasal voice. But I like your theory better. I assumed she had hit him on a whim because she suddenly realized she couldn't take it anymore, but there's no way she 'suddenly' realized this. Obviously she's been sick of him for years and decided that morning that she was making her breakfast, and only hers.
On another note, the idea of her eating his breakfast as a final nail in the coffin (so to speak), well, I kind of like too.
"Also, I've been thinking about the death when the woman kills her husband with the frying pan and *I* think that she sat down and ate *her* breakfast after she kills him instead of sitting down and eating *his* breakfast. Because I was watching it the other day and it struck me that the chick was only making one serving of everything, that she wasn't making a place setting for herself. Frankly, I think that's more awesome."
SO right you are! Thanks R, for pointing that out to me. My thought had always been that she was making his breakfast because she had already eaten something herself earlier on in the morning and that she made the same thing for him every morning and was finally just sick of hearing his obnoxious nasal voice. But I like your theory better. I assumed she had hit him on a whim because she suddenly realized she couldn't take it anymore, but there's no way she 'suddenly' realized this. Obviously she's been sick of him for years and decided that morning that she was making her breakfast, and only hers.
On another note, the idea of her eating his breakfast as a final nail in the coffin (so to speak), well, I kind of like too.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
January is Whacked
So I've completely lost track of where I am and where I wanted to go since I got sick this past week and my dad came into town from Saskatoon and my partner had his birthday and it just seemed like there was a LOT going on around here. A lot for someone who's unemployed....well, almost unemployed. I've been lucky enough to land a contract position with Descant Magazine's S.W.A.T. program (Students, Writers and Teachers). They place writers in high schools around Toronto to be Writer-in-Residences and run writing workshops for the students. Totally my dream job and anything else I end up having to do for money wouldn't even phase me at this point. In fact, I have an interview at Blockbuster of all places, and I don't even care. I'm just thrilled that my education and my book have placed me on a slightly higher rung on the career ladder than I was a couple of months ago.
I've been wanting to do a debriefing of the memorial service I went to last weekend, though I'm wishing I had done it earlier as my mind has been clouded with other things since. Mostly I wanted to talk about how amazing it was and how deeply I was touched by the event. I went there knowing very little about this person and left feeling like I got to know him. The truth is though, there isn't much more to say. It was beautiful and moving and I don't know how I feel about talking about it on my death blog. I just don't know if it's my place to talk about this because I was really an observer. But in some strange way I was a participator as well. I wanted to be there, just didn't want to overstep my bounds. Anyway, I simply feel lucky to have been there.
January is basically whacked. It's the 31st day today and I'm just so happy this month is almost over. I feel like it's been a struggle from day one, fighting against myself and my world around things like work and money. January is the kind of month where everything goes wrong. Plumbing in the house backs up. You bounce cheques. The milk goes bad before the expiry date. You get sick with one cold, it goes away for a few blissful days and then a new one takes its place. January is the month of waiting. You wait to find out about the program you applied for, the contest you entered, whether or not your life is going to change. You make resolutions and you break them before the month is over. You hurl yourself through the days with your face against the painful knife-cutting wind of reality. At least three more months of winter are looming ahead of us, Christmas and its warmth and joy is over and what we really need to do is drink as much hot chocolate as possible, curl up on a couch (if you have one) and nap the month away. Put your head down and go forward as far into the future as you can make yourself. Pass the month by as quickly as you can.
I've been wanting to do a debriefing of the memorial service I went to last weekend, though I'm wishing I had done it earlier as my mind has been clouded with other things since. Mostly I wanted to talk about how amazing it was and how deeply I was touched by the event. I went there knowing very little about this person and left feeling like I got to know him. The truth is though, there isn't much more to say. It was beautiful and moving and I don't know how I feel about talking about it on my death blog. I just don't know if it's my place to talk about this because I was really an observer. But in some strange way I was a participator as well. I wanted to be there, just didn't want to overstep my bounds. Anyway, I simply feel lucky to have been there.
January is basically whacked. It's the 31st day today and I'm just so happy this month is almost over. I feel like it's been a struggle from day one, fighting against myself and my world around things like work and money. January is the kind of month where everything goes wrong. Plumbing in the house backs up. You bounce cheques. The milk goes bad before the expiry date. You get sick with one cold, it goes away for a few blissful days and then a new one takes its place. January is the month of waiting. You wait to find out about the program you applied for, the contest you entered, whether or not your life is going to change. You make resolutions and you break them before the month is over. You hurl yourself through the days with your face against the painful knife-cutting wind of reality. At least three more months of winter are looming ahead of us, Christmas and its warmth and joy is over and what we really need to do is drink as much hot chocolate as possible, curl up on a couch (if you have one) and nap the month away. Put your head down and go forward as far into the future as you can make yourself. Pass the month by as quickly as you can.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Waking
So, I've been invited to two 'wakes' this week, back to back. One is for a close friend's 93 year old grandmother and another is the friend of a close friend who died tragically of an overdoes. I find it strange that the universe is engaging me with death in these distanced ways. These are not people I knew, yet I am tied to them through the people we share our connection to.
I went to my friend's grandmother's home once. She lived in a huge gorgeous house, in a small community town outside of Toronto. I was around 19 or 20 when I went up there, but the image I have in my head is of my friend and I swimming in her glorious cement swimming pool, not as adults, but as kids. Young, immature and ridiculously self-absorbed adolescents with dreams and ambitions gushing from our lips and sexual energy spilling out of our pores. It may as well have been the summer we were sixteen, watching infomercials and talking on the phone; me ranting about my mother and how many chores she expected me to do until I found a summer job (seriously Mum, you want me to clean ALL the outside windows of the house?), and my friend lusting after Ludwig, the man we had met the year before, with the black curly chest hair who worked at City Perk, the local coffee shop we obsessed in. The man who bought the girl he loved blue roses and told our fifteen year old ears to watch the movie Stealing Beauty immediately, because that was the movie that would teach us about love. Or it could've been the warm autumn night we dirty danced with those beautiful Lybian men who we met at an ESL student party, who whispered in our ears the words to 'Shy Guy' and 'Be My Lover', our bodies grinding together, the room a haze of musky cologne, warm breath and sweat. That time has blurred into one long existential adolescent angst, and my friend and I were comrades in our mutual obsession, ecstatic wonder, and longing. The visit to her grandmother's was just one of hundreds of times we spent floating around in a desperate pool of our desire to become 'grown up'. To have sex, to fall in love (either order was fine), have babies. To have love affairs with sweet men and women who we'd tearfully have to part ways with due to our own high ideals and ambitions. We knew what we wanted, and at that time all we could do was hope that it would all turn out as we imagined it could.
As for my friend whose dear friend overdosed, he is one of those people who I didn't know and never heard of until his death. Kind of like Kurt Cobain. I was one of those girls who fell in love with Kurt after his tragic death and began listening non-stop to his music. The 'wake' I'm going to is more of a huge celebration of his life, the kind of thing I would want for my own life when I die. My friend asked me to come and at first I was hesitant. How could I be a part of a celebration for someone I had never known? I felt like I might be overstepping my bounds and was worried about how it might look to those who did have a relationship with him. My friend said that this was exactly why I should come, because he was the kind of person I would have really liked and gotten along with. 'I really wish you guys could've met," He said, "and now maybe you'll be able to feel like you had'. What a beautiful thought. I realized afterwards that I would be flattered if people came to a celebration of my life, simply because friends of mine were confident that we would've been friends HAD we known each other. And the world is connected over and over, intrinsic in how it draws us together.
I feel honoured to attend both of these celebrations. It makes me wonder how my own 'life celebration' would come together. Hopefully the food would be good. I think my family and friends would make sure of that.
Here's a little 6FU homage to Kurt Cobain:
I went to my friend's grandmother's home once. She lived in a huge gorgeous house, in a small community town outside of Toronto. I was around 19 or 20 when I went up there, but the image I have in my head is of my friend and I swimming in her glorious cement swimming pool, not as adults, but as kids. Young, immature and ridiculously self-absorbed adolescents with dreams and ambitions gushing from our lips and sexual energy spilling out of our pores. It may as well have been the summer we were sixteen, watching infomercials and talking on the phone; me ranting about my mother and how many chores she expected me to do until I found a summer job (seriously Mum, you want me to clean ALL the outside windows of the house?), and my friend lusting after Ludwig, the man we had met the year before, with the black curly chest hair who worked at City Perk, the local coffee shop we obsessed in. The man who bought the girl he loved blue roses and told our fifteen year old ears to watch the movie Stealing Beauty immediately, because that was the movie that would teach us about love. Or it could've been the warm autumn night we dirty danced with those beautiful Lybian men who we met at an ESL student party, who whispered in our ears the words to 'Shy Guy' and 'Be My Lover', our bodies grinding together, the room a haze of musky cologne, warm breath and sweat. That time has blurred into one long existential adolescent angst, and my friend and I were comrades in our mutual obsession, ecstatic wonder, and longing. The visit to her grandmother's was just one of hundreds of times we spent floating around in a desperate pool of our desire to become 'grown up'. To have sex, to fall in love (either order was fine), have babies. To have love affairs with sweet men and women who we'd tearfully have to part ways with due to our own high ideals and ambitions. We knew what we wanted, and at that time all we could do was hope that it would all turn out as we imagined it could.
As for my friend whose dear friend overdosed, he is one of those people who I didn't know and never heard of until his death. Kind of like Kurt Cobain. I was one of those girls who fell in love with Kurt after his tragic death and began listening non-stop to his music. The 'wake' I'm going to is more of a huge celebration of his life, the kind of thing I would want for my own life when I die. My friend asked me to come and at first I was hesitant. How could I be a part of a celebration for someone I had never known? I felt like I might be overstepping my bounds and was worried about how it might look to those who did have a relationship with him. My friend said that this was exactly why I should come, because he was the kind of person I would have really liked and gotten along with. 'I really wish you guys could've met," He said, "and now maybe you'll be able to feel like you had'. What a beautiful thought. I realized afterwards that I would be flattered if people came to a celebration of my life, simply because friends of mine were confident that we would've been friends HAD we known each other. And the world is connected over and over, intrinsic in how it draws us together.
I feel honoured to attend both of these celebrations. It makes me wonder how my own 'life celebration' would come together. Hopefully the food would be good. I think my family and friends would make sure of that.
Here's a little 6FU homage to Kurt Cobain:
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