The Bloody Doors Off

In my 54 years, I’d never been to a tombstone unveiling.

I’ve been to many funerals.

But I don’t think Catholics, of which I am recovering, did such a thing.

And we, as a family, never did spontaneously hop into the car and drive to Mount Pleasant cemetery.

Not with me, at least.

The funerals? I remember those.

You never forget those.

Dear friends asked me to emcee their mother’s celebration of life. Of course I said yes. Not just for them. She was like my second mother.

Losing her made my own mother’s passing hit that much harder.

Not once was there a tombstone unveiling.

It was very moving.

Okay.

Stop.

Stop fluffing and write what’s on your mind.

I feel like shit for not attending Bern’s funeral on Wednesday. But there’s not a thing I can do. I don’t drive. Reason number 48 I need to get my licence. Drive two hours east, one hour for the service, Covid protocols mean not everyone can congregate after. Then it’s two hours west.

On my birthday.

Yes, that is a contributing factor. I’m not gonna lie.

So I feel extra shitty.

I’d go to confession, but I haven’t kept up my dues.

I wrote a short play about a man (possibly for-hire, I haven’t defined that) who goes to confession. It stops just as he admits to a plan to kill someone. An act he must do, but is conflicted emotionally.

It’s never revealed who the target is. Many assumed it was the priest.

That seemed too easy. Too obvious.

And that’s where I got stuck.

So I tried to move on with another idea. One that took way too long to present itself.

If there was one uniting factor on this world, JOEL FISHBANE knew, it was no one in their right mind liked folding laundry. A pile lay before him. Half sorted between his and hers. He picked up a black dress, turned it over. Convinced it was inside out, Joel laboriously inverts the garment. Only to realize that the tag of the dress now faced outwards. With a scowl that could turn Medusa to stone, Joel rights his mistake.
JOEL: Jesus Christ.
AND LO, for His name was spoken aloud, the son of our Lord, JESUS, appears. A swarthy man, draped in blinding white robes and well-worn sandals.
Announcing His arrival, the heavenly choir called out:
HEAVENLY CHOIR (OS): B seven. B as in Bob, seven.

The Sacred and The Profane

That one, has some issues that I need to resolve. Like, what the hell?

(Update: I just read a few pages of it. It’s… not good.)

And since then.

The well has been dry.

So this blog has further solidified as a writing touchstone.

Without it, I would wither.

Yes, I know they have pills for that.

Do they have pills for that?