Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ram on a string A funeral and a picnic. Or, more precisely, a viewing (which turned out to be a reception at the funeral home ,with no actual casket in sight). A high school buddy of Bemo's (they were both in the sax section of jazz band) signed up for the unofficial alumni site, presumably for the upcoming reunion. The next day, he killed himself. It was more of a shock than an abiding grief for Bemo, since he hasn't seen the man in 20 years, but it was unnerving to hear that one of the few people you were looking forward to seeing again at your reunion had just taken a different road. We went to the viewing as a respectful thing, but felt a little awkward among all the people who had known him more recently. Still, his parents seemed to be touched that high school friends were coming forward, and I hope that they and his girlfriend can eventually find some peace. The sight of his lovely blonde girlfriend, helplessly dissolving into tears from moment to moment made a peculiar knot form and twist sideways in my stomach. From photographs scattered around the room, they seemed like they had a good life together, and yet it wasn't enough for him. Depression had trapped him in that stereotypical downward spiral, and it wasn't able to be caught in time. She probably blames herself for some of it, although that could be me projecting. But how horrible to know that, despite your love for somebody else, that it wasn't enough - because if you aren't sufficient within yourself, somebody else will never be able to fill that void. As much as that person may want to. However, the rest of the day was not spent dwelling on death. We went to a friend's annual house party/picnic and spent a very hot day in very delightful circumstances, eating and drinking and conversing and watching the little kiddies frolic on the moonbounce and with their water balloons and silly string. A useful antidote to the morning, perhaps. We were going to the King's X concert tonight, but think perhaps to wait for the one in Baltimore later this summer, where Dream Theater and Joe Satriani will also be on the ticket. On Friday, our Curator General (the woman who represents us to the Board) brought us some donations from her mother, a past curator general and lovely woman who is very close to death. She gave us the majority of her snuff box collection, including Fred. Now, Fred is no ordinary snuff box. He is the entire head of a ram, with two great spiraling horns that have silver tips to them, and a big silver and fake yellow gem thing inset right between his glassy, staring eyes. Oh, and another thing - he's on wheels. You could tug him around to each of your guests, so they could reach down and dip snuff from the little center silver and gem thing, all the while meeting Fred's earnest gaze. He dates from around 1850, and is a truly...erm...mesmerizing object. We'll probably end up putting him in the Missouri room, which is High Victorian, so he can fit right in with all the huge, ornately carved, ugly furniture and hideous simpering porcelain pieces and massive piano with the mother of pearl keys. Can you tell High Victorian is not my most favorite of decorative styles? Actually, I like the sofa in Missouri, but I couldn't live in a house that was decorated in High Victorian. One day I'd be found impaled on a shard of a porcelain shepherdess or with my head caved in by a hideous alabaster urn-thing, because I would try to throw it into the fireplace and then it would richochet back at me and cause my demise. And wouldn't that be a great story for the papers? 10:10 p.m. - 2002-06-01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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