days of the dead

no rly.

i'm so OVER dust.

i keep getting this godawful rash thing from the latex mouth-cup of the respirator holocaust dust mask thingy so today i worked without it. upstairs where the batshit has been removed but there is still a WORLD of plaster and mortar dust... so i'm patching the place up and more plaster is fallin off and i'm patchin it up and more is falling off. you get the pic. i have run out of wall goo. of every description. must purchase more. cept have morn and nite classes tomoz so i'll be stayin in at nerd central so i can return to ballarat during store hours.

seeing as i'll be in the city til 9 doing loony-math i bade the nerds come and drink with me at the nearest tavern afterwards...

and one of them be on leave ar HAR!!!!!!!!

i sense a silliness descending

what....

THEfuck?!?!?!

why am i so sociable lately? i think i must be all self esteemy cause i'm doing some hardcore shite and feel as if i'm a worthwhile hooman or something. maybe it's just the excercise giving me a bit o mental health. dunno but is ok. going out with mates is the shit.

recently a friend had the 3-yr-to-the-day occasion for the day her mum died. it was all very family and she said it left her mega emotionally drained. i sorta wanted to ask her questions but.... well..... emotionally drained!!! but i guess this is a general query thingy cause it just got me thinkin... do any of you cunts celebrate the dead? if so... how?

i'm PATHETIC with dates... if it wasn't for all the advertising i'd fuckin forget xmas. so i always forgot my nan's birthday and now i always forget her birthday AND her deathday. NNNNNG *tries to remember the date now* ah yes...

late morning, november 8th 2004 was when she last exhaled and i washed her body and put coins on her eyes...

then the funeral dudes took her away and later they GAVE ME THE CHANGE! wtf?

it was such a relief she was free after all that being-bedridden nonsense. she was such an active independant old bird. it must have sucked having me, or anyone, look after her... not like she was overly proud but there is a loss of dignity that comes with being cared for... especially if you are the type that has always cared for others, which she was. fuckin oath she was.

i wrote her a poem once about how she used to always be raking the her massive yard. and that i was like a pile of leaves that would again and again get blown all over the place and dispersed and mess the joint up after all her hard work but she would just patiently gather all my bits up again and put them back together into a neat little pile and stand-by for the next drug addled tornado police sex romp disaster.

it was very emo.

god... eeesh.... POEM?

it's often said that grandparents and grandchildren speak a secret language... i dunno bout the others cause both grandpas died before i popped out and the other granny lives OS. but me aussie nanna was the only person that put up with me.. never gave up on me even at my worst.. i'd come visit her all hungry and stoned and unwashed and fragile and strung out and she would INSIST that i was loved and worthy of existing... no matter how bad i was. and man.

was i bad.

she used to always take me to an arthouse film at the nova or the kino every wednesday and i'm sure we must have looked like an otherworldly odd couple with my mohawks and facial piercings and over-the-top-goth-punk-shit and her clean-cutski pensioner polyester frockage. she was very good at not giving a fuck about what you looked like on the outside...

i know she was a bit disappointed i wasn't showing off my nubile youthfulness and being pretty. what can i say? at 15 i was tired of getting hassled by the opposite sex, i mean: long blonde hair/athletic build/C-cups/virgin-i attracted so much sexual attention it made me wanna wear a fuckin sack...

so i made myself incredibly ugly and obnoxious and for the most part males would stare but stopped constantly trying to have sex with me... totally worked. cept then i was ugly and obnoxious for real. i've ditched the goth shit but the get-fucked persona still lingers. it's like ma default setting hehe.

i think about her sometimes... particularly when i have done something incredibly stupid or something accidental has comically hurt me... like a bucket fallin on my head... i hear her laughing at me...

heh.

bitch.

yeah you heard me you crazy ol lady... ok so i talk to her alot too. but then again i have pretend conversations with heaps of the living... and also thin air... the cat... plants... stars... yadda yadda...

she used to always tell me "one day after i've kicked the bloody bucket you'll hear my voice comin in from outer space goin 'MARA PUT SOMETHING ON YER FEET'"

or "one day after i've fallen off the bloody twig you'll hear my voice comin from outer space and it'll be me, floatin on a cloud with louis armstrong singin 'what a wonderful world' and shoutin 'MARA HANG YER BLOODY CLOTHES UP'"

and you know what? I FUCKEN DO!!! i half ignore the clothes hanging thing but she totally conditioned me to wear slippers from beyond the fuckin grave. god i loved her...

squee.

whenever i think of her it is with warmth and reverence... and humourous irritation. but it's never on a particular day...

how does that work? i guess it's more a ritual for the living that are left behind... that's something i don't get cause me and my family don't do real emotion. we're not into sharing our real feelings...

well i like to, but my mum's weird and awkward and my brother and dad are fucking mental time bomb psycho nut-jobs who'd rather top themselves or torture the people around them rather than admit vulnerability, so i'm usually bailing up some mate or other- to spew emotional crap all over them or... uhhh

BLOGGING?!?!?!?!?

aaaaaaaanyway... yeah... how do you celebrate your dead?

i do it solo... usually laughing at some spontaneous rememberance of her being a tool.

and i feel her whenever my bare feet get cold.

or i look at clothes on the floor. or there's lint on my jacket. or my shoes need a polish. or my sock has a hole. or i use her old recipes. or ancient cookware... teapot... mixing bowl...

or i smell rotgut brandy.

or i hear louis armstrong.

or there's a SHITLOAD of leaves in my yard.

man... she's all around me fuckin everywhere!

and i'm sure Ibu is too...

ms. Manis... your daughter's company is a joy.

well done lady!