the world moves on

To borrow a phrase from Stephen King’s The Dark Tower, “the world moves on.”

Post-death, life gets real. Time slows down for a bit during the first few hours afterward but then everything catches up. Bills to pay, people to contact, supplies and equipment to buy for the wake. I can see the allure of shutting down and doing nothing. I did that for a couple of hours when I took a nap. Then I got up to do some shit. But the world doesn’t care and put simply, the world moves on.

Grieving. We all grieve differently. Something amazing I’ve experienced is that people I’ve not talked with in a long time or ever, really, are reaching out talk to you and more importantly, listen. The wake for my dad means that everyone has been coming by to my parent’s house to eat and drink and be merry. Which I reckon is common across all cultures and awesome and helps to heal but dude…this shits been going on since Sunday. I’m tired of eating and drinking every night. Which is a good problem to have. If when I die, I only want y’all to party for 2-3 days because I don’t like you enough to have 6-7 days of fun.

Resupply every day

But back to the talking. Many people have come to me with their story of loss and pain and grief. That helps, in a way. I’m not sure how exactly but grief is grief and who am I to deny them or myself that? Maybe it helps that others have gone through this and are somewhat OK now. Maybe it helps that others will go through this in the future as well? Maybe that is comforting.

Brisket and chicken feet.
Next, the listening. I’ve had offers to talk to friends (in and out of my circle), crash on their couch, and drink all their beer.

Note: the last one was not an actual offer but I’m reading into it what I will. Eat bread, share their salt, drink all their alcohol…uh yeah…omw.

Thank you to each and everyone who has reached out to me, text, calls, and other communication protocols. It means a lot and I can never thank you enough.

One of my concerns was that my dad didn’t live a full life. Not to worry, said my uncle Ray. He told me my dad lived a great life and that he didn’t think my dad worked a hard day in his life. Not that he didn’t work hard, but that things came easily to him. He could walk into any room and be anyone’s friend, could chat up anyone, and was quite the ladies man. So was grandpa, whom I never got to meet. So…2 out of 3 ain’t bad for me, right? Guess which two were passed on to me.

Thank you, my redacted friend.
There’s this quote out there on the Internets by Chief Aupumut or Tecumseh (depending on your source):

When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.
I’m not a big post-a-quote-with-cool-pic dude ’cause I’m not a giant dork but I like the quote and the message. I’m frequently asked why I do these seemingly-dumb events and travel every where for it and I couldn’t give an answer I was truly happy with until now- I’m living, bitches.