7 posts tagged “death”

Hollis Gillespie is killer because she makes you feel impervious to the sadness of the world by writing essays that make you LAUGH.  You get this false sense of safety, everything in this story will turn out okay, this bitch is too crazy to let me down. 

If she never jabbed the knife in that'd be the let down.

Excerpt:  (why am I doing this to myself?)

"Tom told me how he had lost his former job as a chauffer in Atlantic City because he stopped the limo on the freway to save a dog struck by a car, stuffing the injured animal into the front seat and ignoring the irate complaints of the paying passenger in the back as he detoured to the animal hospital.  "He was just lying there on the emergency lane with his legs broken but sitting up, you know, watching the cars pass,"  Tom recalled of the dog.  "Every time a car went by it would ruffle the fur on his coat."

As we belted more margaritas he kept talking about the dog. Stupidly, I thought he regretted losing his job as a driver.  But I should have seen the signs.  I should have seen Tom's eyes--big, spaniel eyes rounded in regret--and his hands, cupping and uncupping his margarita glass in painful reminiscence.  "hey," I said nervously when I saw the tears start to well up in his eyes.  "Hey, Tom.  So you lost your crappy job carting people around, so what?"

Then he told me the truth.  He hadn't saved the dog after all.  As his limo passed the animal on the road, the wind ruffled the fur on it's coat.  He'd hated himself ever since, hated himself for not even slowing down as the dog looked up hopefully.  Sometimes, though, Tom would rewrite history and see himself stopping the car laying the injured animal in the front seat, oblivious to the bitching from the passenger in the back.  But Tom was incapable of maintaining this fake recollection, and after enough margaritas the truth would return.  "I should have stopped," he said softly, then his big eyes began to leak."

I haven't stopped thinking of this since I read it.  It reminded me of something so awful I don't have the guts to write it down, even now.

I love Tom because at least he knew he should've stopped, and next time I know he will stop.  But most people-  most people wouldn't give it much thought after they kept on going. 

People think I'm insufferable because I don't accept excuses or flimsy reasoning.  When they're looking for someone to comfort them because of the shitty things they've done, I won't do it.  And I don't allow myself that reprieve either. 

CONVENIENCE.  That's all it's about.  People don't want someone else's blood dripping around on the clean surface of whatever facade they've built.  They don't want to DEAL with it, pull over, spend money, extend themselves any further than absolutely necessary to get by.  This kind of living will render someone utterly unforgettable.  Why bother sucking air at all?  Passing hours and years eat everything we create.  The only things that last are memories and the dents we make in other lives.  What's a hundred bucks or a late arrival to an appointment compared to the gratitude a needy person or a dying animal would show you if you just stopped and helped?  What's a few bags of cat food, the minor inconvenience of fostering a homeless or lost animal for a couple of months if you could help it and give the gift of warmth and love to somebody else as a payoff?

How could anyone ignore a starving or bleeding animal?  A PERSON?

Demented bliss

To the woman who called while I was at the Humane Society the other day wanting to know if she could ditch her cat there, at a facility that uses euthanasia, because it was shedding too much and her baby was learning to crawl:

So, you say your cat's shedding IN THE MIDDLE OF SUMMER, eh?  Weird

Invest in a BRUSH, for starters, you daft, parasitic freak.  Kind of frightening that you're the mother of an infant, yet you can't wrack your brain hard enough to find a way to maintain this animal until you find it a home, a responsibility you took on when you presumably chose to become the owner of a pet.  I think it's reprehensible that someone would rather shove their responsibility off onto someone else than live with a minor inconvenience until a living creature was placed safely in a good home where it belongs.  The Humane Society is full to the max right now, not only is there no room for new animals, but choosing to abandon an animal there when other options are available, even if it is adopted, puts one more cat at risk for euthanasia.  How is it okay to choose convenience over compassion for another creature?  So what if you have to spend time maintaining a cat's coat?  That is something you should've been doing the entire time anyway.  So what if it's a hassle, if you have to make some calls or write some email, vacuum a carpet, use a lint roller-  isn't it worth it if you can find your pet a loving home?  Would it be so terrible to just do the right thing?

Lately, when people come to me feeling crummy about something they've done and they want me to say it's okay, you had to!--sometimes you HAVE to avoid responsibility/throw someone under the bus/act like an asshole--when they're looking for justification and sympathy, I just can't give it to them.  I really don't care.  So good luck with your atonement and all. 

Things I'm grateful for:

Friends who are around
Chuck fixing my broken machine/giving me photoshop/giving me pizza
Travis

Things I'm excited about:

Samiam in Portland/Block Party/Wicked
A dirty, loud, chaotic night with pretty fireworks and trash blowing softly in the breeze
Letting the Right One in

It's okay, I was still impressed

Driving Lisa Turtle the cat to her new home in Seattle today

I think I'm in love with Victor Mancini.  Brutally honest ne'er do wells who scare away the world at large comfort me in a way nothing else could

Sunny Day Real Estate in October and Samiam in August and I'm in heaven

I'm just not feeling too hot-  I'm in a self-loathing cycle and I feel like I have no business socializing or trying to grow until I fix what's happening right this second, right here and now

I can't even string a good sentence together

I'm running late and I don't care

Years ago I watched a documentary about Daniel Johnston with Jessica.  It ranked way up there with some of the best films I've ever seen, it was rad, and not just for a music documentary.  One part I never forgot was a family member talking about his mental illness and strange will for tragedy, how his heart was broken but it was almost as if he basked in it, how the only woman he ever loved left him for somebody else and how that person was an undertaker as a profession.  This person said that D seemed to love that fact somehow, that the man who took his love away from him was an UNDERTAKER.

Devil

Moving on, this is important--  I'm making something, well, writing something rather.  And I need some input on a certain subject. 

What happens when/after we die? 

Please answer this however you see fit, specific ideas and beliefs are preferred over vague notions, please interpret this until you can't recognize it anymore, I want to know the answer to this question. 

Godspeed, guys.  Let's try and make it through one more day together.

I'm re-posting this because it seemed too important to disregard.  Another thing-  The guitarist from Cobra Clutch is dead.  He died in his sleep.  He was 24.  Wonder what that's all about.  I hope it's not what everyone assumes.  I was in this daze all day, thinking about how I can't even believe that I exist.  One day I won't, and maybe someone will miss me so much that when they remember stories of me breathing, talking, laughing, sleeping, working, they'll feel awe that once I walked erect and sucked oxygen.  I'm a miracle.  I shouldn't be here.  I'm so afraid of death and dying that most days I feel like I won the lottery, just the fact that I'm breathing.  How could anyone waste this?  Either way. 

Read the story here, and Jonah's blog after that.

http://www.noisecreep.com/2009/06/01/cobra-clutch-guitarist-24-dies-in-sleep/?icid=main|aim|dl2|link5|http%3A%2F%2Fwww.noisecreep.com%2F2009%2F06%2F01%2Fcobra-clutch-guitarist-24-dies-in-sleep%2F

"Hi.

It's a strange relationship that we have through this music. We know each other, but we don't. We are part of each other's lives without ever meeting for more than moments, mostly. This is beautiful and sad and lots of things. For any number of reasons that a therapist could probably explain better than me, I've always instinctively searched for the most personal ways to do this rock thing. It's been incredibly rewarding in ways I never could have predicted, and it's painful in many ways that are just as unexpected.

As I was preparing this month's hello, I learned that a guy called Ryan Pink had died. Pink and I have been in touch through the music for years and years. He liked some of my stuff, didn't like other stuff, it never mattered, it goes way beyond that. He was creative, smart, opinionated, troubled, sweet, all the adjectives that come up short when it really counts. He left behind a young child, lots of art, and friends and family that will miss him dearly. I will miss him, too.

We'd been writing back and forth over the past months, me mostly gruffly encouraging him to make sure, no matter what, to grow up and showed up for his kid. We said a nice hello in New Mexico when I was there for some random lunchtime show a few weeks back. He's gone now. Whatever could have been won't be. Drugs. He was getting clean, probably just wanted one more dance with the past. Who knows. I've been there, in so many ways. Anyway, it's a strange and empty feeling that his rants won't be there on the board, that I won't get random late-night messages from him about who-knows-what, asking for help or playfully cussing me out.

Some of the other folks that knew him in any number of ways are gathering his writing and music. I'll keep everyone posted as best I can. There may also be an effort to start some sort of fund for his son, who I've never met, and may never.

This sad story of a young dad dying is all too common. It's easy to go numb, which is maybe why I've always clung to the little moments, to try to stay un-numb. Numb sure looks good sometimes.

So, in this strange, distant, somehow intimate way, goodbye, Pink. Dylan is still and always better than Waits, but I'll sing 'Heart Of Saturday Night' for you sometime. You are missed. I am crying.

It obviously feels a bit incongruous to mix all that with talking about upcoming shows and all, but that's this weird world we're in. I guess I really just don't feel up to talking about it too much right now, but I sincerely hope to see you soon. I will always be happy to keep in touch and grateful that you help me make a living doing this strange stuff. I send love to you and yours.

Check the links for all the info, there are good things happening, things I'm excited about and want to share with you. Maybe the only positive thing about sudden tragedy is that it drives home the platitude about living in the moment much better than all the cheesy cards. So let's.

Love,
Jonah"
http://jonahmatranga.com - Home
http://twitter.com/jonahmatranga - Fun with 140 characters
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonah-Matranga/9570482995 - I hate those URLs
http://myspace.com/jonahmatranga - The shark has been jumped, but still
--

I love to scare myself and give others a million things to contemplate.  I love passing along or disproving urban legends, depending on my mood, and I like to give almost religious meaning to the everyday tasks we go about as members of modern society because I believe in the importance of RITUAL and observing SUPERSTITION.  It's easy to fizzle away into this ordinary meaningless existence when not paying attention, and I believe that a healthy fear/respect of the unknown is the first step to prevent becoming at least totally jaded or having some real existential issues. 

On urban legends:  I am a SUCKER for these.  I love love love the depth they give to the boring landscape of suburbia or the North American countryside.  I love them as fables used to scare little kids into being good, I love them as preludes to hot make-out sessions all over the nation.  Sometimes, though.  Ugh.  Sometimes I research one that I end up having something AGAINST.  Here's one. 

URBAN LEGEND:  A rooster lived for 18 months with it's head chopped off.

TRUE.

Strange but true. A farmer from Fruita, Colo., thought he was just putting dinner on the table when he picked up an axe and beheaded one of his chickens. What happened next became the stuff of legend: The headless rooster bobbed and weaved back to the henhouse and lived for 18 more months.

The animal, later dubbed Mike and celebrated with a festival, Web sites and various magazine articles, survived because the blade missed his jugular vein and a clot prevented him from bleeding to death. The axe blow landed high enough that most of the chicken's brain stem and one ear remained intact. Mike was fed and watered by inserting an eyedropper directly into his gullet. Sadly, he later choked to death in a motel room.

Residents of Fruita remember Mike as "a big fat chicken who didn't know he didn't have a head."

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little for a couple reasons.  Once, I fell in love with a cat at the Tacoma Humane Society with three legs.  Somethin' just ain't right about a recently-made Tripod kitty hobbling around and falling on his little face, but I loved him anyway.  He was born that way.  It's hard to compare a missing LEG with a missing HEAD, however-  Kitty was not purposely rendered a tripod.  Uh, not to my knowledge.  Rooster, though...oh, Rooster.  You were nothing but an intended victim of homicide, or, poultricide, okay, you were an intended meal for some farmer's tummy.  Someone came at your neck with an axe.  Now you're headless.  But instead of a meal, you are a pet.  The same people who wanted to kill you and eat you are now parading you around like you're the Queen of England.  Not because you're a cute animal with some personality, but because you're a decapitated rooster-freak.  They made money from your humiliation, pain, and exploitation.  And there is not a right angle in that. 

Peace out, little rooster.  You deserved someone who'd pet you feathers when you had a FACE.  Or, at least, a merciful death.

A million things:

First, hi.  Which is funny because the whole reason I made a new Vox is because the amount of hits on my MySpace blog was getting creepy.  So hardly anyone knows I have this.  And I kinda missed it here.

Also, my heart really hurts right now reading about Gustav and the people who have died.  Sometimes I feel guilty because I'm actually alright.  Why doesn't a tree fall on ME and kill ME?  It isn't fair.

Then, there's a stray kitty I look after.  She's mangy and there is something wrong with her, but I just love her and want her really bad :(  I made a little shelter for her out of a covered litter box, I put a blanket inside and hope she'll go in there for shade or to keep warm but I don't know.  Someone eats the food I leave out.  I hope it's her.  She runs away from me.  Fireworks exploded outside awhile ago and the first thing I thought of was how I hoped poor kitty wasn't too afraid.

I was recently introduced to Haruki Murakami.  I read a book review and was like, okay.  I have to get this for someone right now.  And since then I've been reading excerpts here and there from various works, and I'm fucking sprung on this.  When I read this:

"Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time. It's only a natural feeling."

I thought, I'm not losing my mind.  I'm not losing it after all.  Because I've felt that way since 250 B.C. and feeling sad when you should be crazy/ecstatic in love or on your way kind of takes your gravity away.  But, somehow.

As I read on, I found several more quotes relating to death that had the effect of a prescription-available-only-in-mexico muscle relaxer on me because okay.  Because.  Ugh.  Society tries to tell us that it's okay to die.  Life insurance, burial plans, elaborate funerals doubling as family reunions.  But because it's natural and inevitable, does that make it okay?  Does it really?  It's natural and inevitable that psychos who go on murder sprees will be born and inflict their horror on makind, but does that make it alright?  All I'm saying is that I'm not okay with it.  And I'm tired of people trying to make me believe that it's fine.

"I can't understand nothingness. I can't understand it and I can't imagine it."

"I know I should buy my own suit, but somehow I never get around to it. I feel as though if I buy funeral clothes I'm saying that it's OK if somebody dies."

"Losing my mother was a real shock to [my father]. I mean, it made him a little cuckoo. That's how much he loved her. Really."

"So that's how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that's stolen from us - that's snatched right out of our hands - even if we are left completely changed people with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness."

I want a brand of love that only the brave and the slightly off-kilter ever manage to grasp.  I want to live forever.  I never knew it'd be such a huge fucking deal.  And if I can't have immortality, then I at least want that love.  I will negotiate with death after that.

<3r