On Emo's Death

Keith Emerson fatally shot himself in the head, in the wee hours of Friday, March 11th, 2016. He was scheduled to play 6 concerts in Japan next month, and even though he had a 'cover' keyboardist, he was depressed that the irreparable damage to his hands meant he'd never play as he wanted to and had once been able to, again. His arthritis and nerve damage caused unending pain. He'd had surgery 2 years ago, removing feet of intestines due to chronic diverticulitis, but still had digestive issues. And last week he had bronchitis. His longtime girlfriend came home to their condo on Friday morning and found him dead.

Keith's death has taken the wind out of my sails a bit. There's been too much death and sadness this year, and Friday in addition to Keith, it was the 5th anniversary of my brother Tommy's death. 2 amazing musicians, 1 of them able to get far, 1 not ever able to get out of the cage of his mental illness. Both forever dead on March 11th. I don't even want to talk to anyone. Haven't returned calls. This is a profound sadness, not one I can cry off. It's one I have to take off in layers, a few hours of silence here, a few hours of music there. It's not depression, I'm not hopeless. I'm very, deeply sad. Sad that Keith felt dying was his only option for relief from what was hurting him. Sad that we'll never see him doing something fab again, that he'll never see Rachel Flowers make the big time, sad that I never met him, sad that we'll just be going on from here without him. That's what gets me every time. The world just keeps going, one of us having dropped out of life. The news is sad with splashes of horrifying. People I love are hurting a lot. It's all very real and very sad. 

RIP, Emo. We'll miss you. Now get Chris Squire off his ass and make some music for us to hear when we catch up to youse.

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Death and Rot and Death

There will be no cheer in this post. Just a warning. As if the title didn't give it away.

At chemo today, Mare's doctor told her there were 3 spots of cancer in her brain. So this really is it. She's not taking any more treatments, and meets with hospice tomorrow.

Speaking of hospice, the grapevine has it that my old bitty neighbor is going to one. I've no clue if this is more than a rumor, or if as usual it's cockeyed, and she's going to a nursing home, or it's all just bullshit. She has 6-8 people of varying services in every day, perhaps it'd be smarter to have her in a facility.

The February death anniversaries finished today with the 21st of Ian's death. I'm waiting on a reading through a double-blind mediumship test. I sent a piece of his sweater for the medium to use to psychometrise. Some time soon I'll be getting transcripts of several readings and "spirit drawings". I'll choose which are closest possible matches, and later on they'll send me the complete reading and drawing meant for me. With all the dead peep in my life, who knows if Ian would be the loudest in the crowd. But I'm curious to see what if any results come from this. My mother gave him that sweater and he wore it all the time, and she was the Spiritualist so you'd think she'd yell the loudest to be known. We'll see soon.

I'm pretty damn sure that our existence doesn't end, but it'd be nice to get some independent data.

I'm tired of all this death and rot and death. I'm sure you are, too.
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Conditions Apply

Had one of those accidental early morning deep conversations. You know, when you're sitting in silence with a cuppa waiting for your computer to wake up. Someone says something and things go sideways into heavy.

"There's no such thing as unconditional love."

"What?"

"There's no such thing as unconditional love."

"I dunno, I think there is, in some instances."

"Well, that's conditional itself. People change, instances are subject to change, always nullifying the unconditional part. People are judgmental as hell, and will even walk away without warning. So there's no such thing as unconditional love. It's another lie we believe that just makes us unhappy."

"Jesus Christ. This early I'm thinking and hearing this?" ( I think this, I don't actually say it, there's just a thoughtful pause).
"Well, shit. But yeah. Ya got a point."
Disabused of the notion of unconditional love in the abstract, but possibly still applicable once in a billion chance instances, I burn my lip on hot coffee and get online.

Februranty

It's nice to know that some things remain in an ever-changing world. February has always either sucked or blown and this year's edition is no different.

On the heels of the 19th anny of my mom's death came the news that my old friend Mare probably has countable weeks left in this dimension. Her siblings aren't hearing what she tells them and she's angry and frustrated. Even Billy keeps coming up with crackpot cancer cures. At least her hub and kids get it. The cancer treatments she's endured made me sure I'll never do them. She's fought every inch, but it was 4th stage ovarian cancer when found, and there's no real treatment for it. This is how my mom died, too. I've known Mare since 1986, she was Mom's friend and favorite daughter before I ever met her. Mare's cousin and I worked together at the Restaurant School, and laughed at this weird connection. Mare took the weekend trips with the p's that I had no interest in, was at all the family get-togethers. She did the life choices Mom thought I should do. After the p's died we were down to holiday cards. Then Facebook happened, and we reconnected, and then she got the diagnosis. This is suckage of a supreme order.

The Shire's closing looms, and after perusing the rules for the new Red Rover building, I'm not going there. Claiming Beest as a "comfort animal" is ridiculous, and no, I won't live anywhere that I can't practice my personal beliefs. So screw it. I don't know where I'll go, or what's even within possibilities, so that process starts tomorrow morning. This blows. Hard.

The last few weeks have been productive writing-the-book-wise and it's been a saving grace. I'm also 100% sure my writing sucks, my ideas suck, I suck, and I'm wasting my time even thinking I could do this. But on it goes.

There are great gaping holes in my life where people used to be. Again, February. The month of purification and what survives among the dead.

If I can't eat normal food again soon I'll go nuts. Since quitting tobacco, I'm a bitch on wheels anyway. Take away everything but soft and overboiled stuff with no spices and imagine what a delight I am. I can't stand myself.

And to wind up this rant, the weather is a miserable wet smelly old blanket that was laying in the mud under the snow and has now been dragged out into the yard by the dog, where it's been pissed on repeatedly. There has been no Winter. 2 days of cold is not Winter. No Winter= no pain relief.

I hope things are better where you are and that this year so far has been healing and hopeful. Whatever else, we abide.
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Only the Beginning

I feel like celebrating. A few minutes ago I finished the grand outline and timeline for the Beest book. This was much more involved than I ever expected it to be. 151 years of an adventurous life is a lot of territory to cover. I now know more about Victorian life, Kipling, colonial India, Irish history, WW1, pre-Depression NYC, HP Lovecraft, WW2, post-war France, and a host of other characters and local histories I may never use again. There's still more research to go (I don't think there'll be an end to it) but most of the time-consuming slogging and major decisions are done. Notes are organized, a binder with 600 blank pages awaits. This is it.

Now comes the fun- and terrifying- part. I'm just as excited to face it as I am scared to mess it up. This is stupid pressure to put on myself. I can tell other people to screw off, but haven't mastered telling myself to shut up.

However, as I fed the looseleaf pages into the binder rings, a flurry of confetti flew from the page holes. It's time to celebrate.
Woohoo!
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