Is it possible to have such intense anxiety that the entirety of my musculature aches? That I've been so tense I'm getting muskelfiber? I've been doing that thing again, when I try to find humour in horror, but as we all know, that usually results in me detonating over a jar I can't open or the cat sneezing too loudly. 

Or it could be I showered yesterday and sat with moist hair in a room with the window cracked open. Sounds way better. 

You know, if it just so happens that it turns out my mum can't live without my dad, imagine the poor dude in heaven, just about to embrace his newfound youth and freedom, and her voice coming up behind him, reprimanding him for chasing tavern maidens. It would give only half a positive meaning to the phrase: they're together in heaven now. :))

Ye, that's my humour in horror. There are just some things you can't steer no matter how hard you try. 

Everyone: "Yay, 2020 is over!!" 2020: "Hold my beer."

 Fuck these earthquakes. I mean, we're just jumping, but poor Zagreb/Petrinje are 200 km away! And why - there are no tectonic shifts there, no volcanos. Why do they keep jumping??

"Nocturnal" series.

 

I gotsta say, if life ever turns in a direction where G just so happens to marry again someone else in the future, he'll be more than fully equipped to deal with any kind of mental disarray. Good news for me, not so for him, as having to hold someone's sane soul like a frail egg in your hands is a bit of a bummer.

But ye. He manages me perfectly. Whether he is just that good or whether he just sees me as a small child, either way. We had sorta Xmass dinner up at mum's place, as sis is keeping her distracted by cooking and baking to no end. Which is great, except they set the table in the living room, where, you know, dad lived out his few final days and where I haven't been able to even peek inside, yet alone step in. Sis tried to bait me by hanging my favourite chocolate on the makeshift tree, and mum snapped at me to stop making a fuss. But I had 20 days to try and work a way around it and it wasn't happening. If I had a say, I would never go into the room again. My brain is fully able to paint over certain stressful stuff, but it does have an uncanny ability to not only remember a certain thing to painstaking detail, but it also tends to fill in the gaps like a supercomputer. 

So, asking G to help me, as I am not very good with walking into spaces yet - where the heating furnace is, is also a problem - a million little items there that dad brought, used or touched. Or turned to charcoal. G took my hand and said alright, let's go. And we went around the living room, to the corners, around furniture, rounding the central fireplace, to the sofa pretty decorated tree, everywhere. Dispersing demons, making sure they don't grow. Nipping symbolism in the bud.

There's an inner G, as well. A voice of reason within me. I had an urge to secretly start buying things I know dad would love, and store them someplace secretly. Not unlike eastern religions have little shrines for their ancestors. But an inner G commented: that would solve absolutely nothing, it would just make you feel weirder. Quit acting like a freak. 

Am still not allowed to get a comfort animal, though. He says I have a bunch of animals and all they do is manage and irritate me. Fair enough.

 Hello solstice, my old friend :)

The memory of my father is now a large white ship

(each suite a memory)

A large, white, gleaming modern cruise ship,

moving away from me on a windless day,

gliding down a flawless ocean

Under a flawless sky.

Far from a crushing affair, 

his passing was a dignified, tranquil conclusion

to a friendship 

by the wildest of mentors. 

I wonder if, as he was leaving, he went to check up on his vineyard one more time and count the bees and he saw that one of the hives was withered, so he picked it up and took it with him and he's a beekeeper now, on top of vintner? You can make quite a good mead if you know what you're doing and have a large enough glass jar. Can you imagine? A winemaker beekeeper old commie storyteller in heaven. Naa, he's with my brother now, somewhere in their homeland open fields, talking shit about politics and chasing women, eating all they can, smoking the good old brands without a filter. I told mum if she ever happens to hear an odd noise in the middle of the night, coming from the pantry, that's just him sneaking back to steal the good sausages. 

Well ... that much about that ....

 

Some more 'cruel strikers' ...

 As I've mentioned before, the concept of a 'cruel striker' is what I call a fake letter or a fake message, designed to make someone feel better, even though it is a very thin, transparent lie. not for the piece of paper itself, but for the sense of it. To write 'cruel strikers' is akin to giving someone a bullshit faith experience or somesuch. A tiny, private matter. Criminally arrogant, engineered for pure good. 

So. My gran will be a 100 tomorrow. I've not seen her in several months and they don't allow visits even though a window, as they did in the spring. There isn't much I can buy and send her, except perhaps fake flowers, which would be allowed and easily disinfected. She can't hear or see well enough for the phone, which we've tried, and all that stuff we used to gift her - blankies, perfumes, toiletries, sweets, room decor and so on, none of that serves her any longer, half because she's always kept her room minimal and just gives clutter away, but mostly because the caretakers already provide all the bath products needed and the retirement home is really taking great care of her. Materially, she lacks for nothing. Much of the rest she can't really see. 

So the only thing I could think of, is to write a bunch of cruel strikers. I used different pens and different writings and I'll admit I could have used a lot nicer handwriting for mum, as that one is probably the only one she'll care about, but G helped me deliver a dozen of them to the Home's address, so in my mind, when today the caretakers visit her, she'll have a dozen different greeting cards. I will probably buy and write and send some more, so they keep coming for the next few days. I sign almost everyone I can think of, from people in this building to people who work in the bakery across the street. I am of half a mind to sign my late brother, but I desire none to post it that far. I'd even sign the president, but he's an asshole and she would just get angry if he wrote to her - though I think the major does congratulate the centenarians. Some signees know of this, others will never find out. It matters too little, I think. I think she will only care that her room is suddenly full of best wishes and greetings. That's the idea, at least. Cruel strikers never really work. 

Just wiped my nose and then spent 20 minutes googling what medical condition causes your snot to be orange, before the General woke up and said: mulling french sienna without a face mask last night. 

Sometimes the brain just won't brain.