06-27-04 @ 9:49 am EDT

Well, I just spent a half hour typing up my latest dream, and it always takes me positively ages to type up a Skew entry so I'm doing this offline when I should be writing. So, I don't know if this entry will even have a point, since it's getting so hard for me to just gather all my different thoughts and try to make a narrative out of them.

Anyway, Tuesday my last remaining grandfather, on my mother's side, died. I'm all right with this because I was not very close to him, but I did feel sadness for Ma, since he was her father. And the way she reacted hit too close to home with how I felt after Pepper had died. I haven't told her this, because I don't want to bring up her pain, and I don't want to seem like I'm trivializing it by comparing her father to a cat...but those who have read Skew since 2001 know how close I was to Pepper. She was over twenty years old--I grew up with her always there. She was literally family to me, the only friend I had.

If you read the entries from late October 2001, you'll remember that the day she was put to sleep, I had the chance to accompany her to the vet. I was in bed and I thought Ma was just taking her there for an enema or some such as she had been bloated and lethargic. I had told Ma, "If they have to put her to sleep, come back and get me first." When Ma left with Pepper, I said goodbye from my bedroom door since I was not dressed. I didn't even bother to come out and kiss her goodbye.

When Ma returned, she had already been put to sleep. To this day I so badly wish I know why Ma did not come back and get me--I WANTED to be there when Pepper died! I wanted to be the one to hold her! I wanted to at least have the chance to tell her goodbye. I don't know why Ma didn't come get me when I told her to. I haven't been able to work up the courage to ask her why she didn't. Maybe it slipped her mind; maybe she thought it would be best. But I still don't know why. And I still wish more than anything that I had at least left my damn bedroom and kissed her goodbye.

Well...the Monday night before, Ma had gone to visit a friend who was having yet another problem with her computer; I think this friend invents crises in order to get Ma to visit. Ma had been working on a Father's Day card for Grandpa but hadn't given it to him yet. Tuesday morning around six AM, the telephone rang. It was Uncle Jeff. He is always a moron when leaving messages, but somehow, I think both of us knew what this one was about--he's never called so early before. I stood in the hallway and waited while Ma talked to him on the phone, though she didn't say much. Her voice started cracking partway through and I knew. When she hung up, the first thing she said was, "I should have visited him yesterday...I wanted to give him his Father's Day card. I should have visited him..."

He's been sick for a while, with cancer. So, we knew his end was coming soon. We weren't entirely unprepared. But when she said those words it stabbed right through me. Grandpa's death didn't really affect me, but her reaction did. It was me with Pepper--all over again. A chance I should have taken, I KNEW I should have taken it, but I didn't, for whatever stupid reason. Because I thought there'd be one more day. And there wasn't. I still beat myself up inside whenever I think about how selfish I was, just to get a little more sleep. I could imagine how Ma felt, having gone to help somebody with her computer rather than to visit Grandpa. And she never got to give him the card she had worked so hard on.

I crept out of the hallway and hugged her. I felt so worthless. I couldn't do anything to make her feel better, whatsoever. Even hugging her felt stupid--who wants a hug from me? The person most repelled by bodily contact? But it was the only thing I could think of. She hesitated and then hugged me back. "I should have gone to visit him," she wept. "Damn it."

After the hug, she got dressed and left. She returned shortly after to call Dad, and asked me to tell her boss June of what had happened if she should call. I nodded and she left again. She seemed so lost. She didn't even take her ever-present pop cup with her. Cosmas sat in the window and he was very confused because he notices EVERY little deviation from the normal routine, and Ma leaving at six-thirty in the morning was not normal. After she left I sat on the couch and finished my daily transcribing. I was crying a lot by then, but not for Grandpa. For Ma. I know how I would feel if I lost a parent. Before going online I called the store and Sharon, Ma's coworker who was supposed to be off to have surgery for gallstones, answered the phone. She didn't know who I was at first but when I explained why Ma would not be coming in she said, "Oh, we can handle a few days without her just fine. You tell her not to even think about this place right now." I thanked her and hung up, and then went online like always.

Well...aside from that one morning, she's handled it much better than *I* would. The very next day she mocked a woman's lispy voice on a TV commercial and we laughed together. When leaving to make preparations for the upcoming funeral she lapsed into sadness, of course, but she handled it very well. One time she slipped just slightly, though, and that was Thursday night, I believe. She came home late and I had to ask her, "Did you go to the casino?" Because on normal weeks, she goes up across with June and doesn't get home until around one AM. It turned out that no, she had in fact been with family and they had gone to the bar. "I had just two beers," she said, "and a White Russian." She showed me a little wooden plaque with an etching of a deer in a stream and Grandpa's name on it. "He has one just like this for his box," she said (Grandpa was cremated). "Only it's made of metal, and it's bigger." Every few minutes she'd continue talking about the little etching and would punctuate each description with, "Only it's bigger." I eventually noticed how she kept repeating herself and realized she was drunk. o_O Ma very, very rarely gets drunk, but when she does, it is VERY noticeable. The last time it happened I made the mistake of asking her to sign a check for me and she signed the wrong name; when I pointed this out she stared at it, then started giggling uncontrollably. Ma is not one who can hold her drink, unfortunately.

When she started describing the plaque for about the fourth time, I finished with, "Only it's BIGGER," and she started giggling. "Ma, you can't hold your drink," I said.

"I only had two beers," she insisted.

"And a White Russian."

She gave me a puzzled look. "How did you know I had a White Russian?"

O_o

Well, she kept up the giggly stuff, but at one point her face screwed up, and she put her hands to her face and her giggle came out sounding unmistakably like a muffled sob. I cringed and fell silent. I felt if I pushed in any direction she might break down crying; my brother, whenever HE got drunk, tended to come to my room late at night and tell me how much he loved me, what a great sister I am, how lousy he'd always treated me, and both of us would always end up crying our eyes out. I did NOT want a repeat of that. Fortunately the moment passed and she wiped her eyes, and everything returned to normal...but that really stung. I hope she does not even remember it.

Well again...Friday, the day of the funeral, came. I did not want to go but I did not make a fuss about going, because I know how hurt I would feel if I had a daughter who would not even attend my parent's funeral. I could put my stupid anxiety on hold long enough for that. Everything went moderately smoothly up until the morning of the funeral when we got into a fight over clothes--she had HAD to purchase me some new ones, and nothing but a new pair of pants had fit, and I always feel awful after trying on clothes that don't fit--the argument was mainly my fault for not pointing out earlier that the tags in the new pants bugged me and I needed her to remove them--I remembered just as she was leaving to help with the funeral. But I ended up blaming the whole thing on her buying the clothes in the first place, and then it got to be about how I never look good in ANY clothes, how nobody will even notice me in them anyway because all they ever want to know from me is if I have a job yet, how nobody in the family cares unless I'm working and being productive, how humiliated I feel every time I have to tell them that no, I have no job and no life, so why even go to the funeral anyway because NOBODY CARES about me. *sigh* Everything was going so well until then, too. Everything I said is stuff I can't take back because I did mean it--those are the very reasons I did not want to go. But for God's sake, it was about a pair of frigging PANTS, and this was HER FATHER'S FUNERAL I was bitching about. She fixed the pants and left, and Dad came home shortly after, and he had to keep telling me that I was not the bad guy even though I know I was. I hated that she'd HAD to go buy new clothes when I'd told her not to, but even more I hated how stupid I was being on the day of her father's funeral. I could have been more respectful.

Dad and I got dressed and left. It was chilly out but bright and sunny. As we drove I asked a few tentative questions about the funeral, since this is only the second one I've ever been to in my life. The last one was for my grandfather on Dad's side...back in 1985...when I was all of nine years old, I think. And all I remember of that funeral is sitting in a car staring out at the rain hitting the window, and my brother crying and saying he wished he could stop crying...and me thinking, I wished I could start crying.

I asked, what do people do at funerals? They might give little speeches, but usually there is just a priest or minister who talks, Dad said. How long will it be? Only a half hour or so; they don't take long. (I was not required to attend the after-funeral activities, nor did I intend to.) Will people get up and talk, or pray, or anything? Somebody might offer a eulogy, but that should be about it. I admit I was curious, though the religious angle made me wary...read past entries, you'll know why. My mother's side of the family is rife with Catholics.

We arrived at the Christians Funeral Home and Dad exclaimed in consternation when it seemed not nearly enough people were there, but it turned out they were parked on a back street. We parked there as well and got out and went up the steps toward the funeral home. Dad stopped and started talking with a couple of guys standing out front and I meandered off to the side, feeling very self-conscious. A very short woman then appeared beside me. It was Grandma. She's...shrunk, somehow. o_o I haven't seen most of my relatives aside from my grandma on Dad's side in so long, as I avoid Ma's side of the family...it's nothing personal, it's just that when they get together, there are so many of them, I always feel horrible and trapped and just want to run away...and they really aren't interested in me aside from asking the Three Necessary Questions: "Are you still in college? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have a job?" Ma doesn't believe this, but it's true. That's all they ever want to know--that's all that matters. Everyone else in that side of the family is always having kids, and here I am, sitting shut in the house writing all day...they do not ask me what I like to do, what my hobbies are, oh!--so you write?--what do you write about?--how much do you write, how often, are you published, do you have any readers?--what got you interested in writing?--what do you like to read?--why?--what else do you do?--oh!, that's interesting...tell me more...? I never, ever receive questions like that from the family, and it hurts, very much. I am useless unless I have a job or am having babies, and the only excuse not to be doing either is if I am in college, which I'm not...so I feel I have disappointed them all severely. As I almost said to Ma during that argument, "Maybe I should be happy I'm stuck at home all the time, then I can gain the reputation of being the family weirdo--the Old Spinster shut in the house all the time!" Because it's only the truth...that's the only role I'll ever fulfill in this family, or anywhere.

Well...sorry...where was I? I avoid family gatherings for this reason, because I have no place there--nobody wants to REALLY talk to me, I always get this "Oh," look when I answer "No" to each one of the Three Necessary Questions...then my seat is always getting stolen because there's not enough room, and I get yelled at and ignored when I tearfully beg Ma or Dad to bring me home, not to mention the fact that Grandma has been...less than tactful with me in the past. I know it's just the way she is--she's probably a thinking type, whereas I'm emotional. When I was around nineteen or so she asked that I spend the night at her house and I had to refuse, saying I would get homesick. She gave me this LOOK and harped, "You're nineteen and you STILL get homesick?" Like there is an age limit on social anxiety! And when she had last visited us when the car broke down, I heard her say to Dad regarding his weight, "You know, it wouldn't hurt you to get some exercise, yourself." I know she doesn't mean to be rude, but if somebody made a comment like that to me, I would burst into tears and flee the room. I already know I'm worthless and ugly! I don't need family telling me so!

So that's why I've plain-out avoided Ma's side of the family. Never attend gatherings, never go to Christmas dinner or to visit. There are just TOO MANY of them, and they are ALL outgoing. NOBODY in this family is even remotely like me! I swear to God I am the only one who actually sits around and imagines things and then writes about them. I have no idea where I got this from.

But here was Grandma, now standing beside me. So short. I'm only five feet tall, Ma is 4'11", and Grandma...was so much shorter. The last time I'd actually seen her she had been at least as tall as Ma. She looked up at me and smiled and I gave an awkward smile and she took my hand and said something, I forget what; probably a hello. Maybe she hadn't expected me to be there; I wouldn't blame her. I don't think she's seen me in years. She said, "Would you like to walk in with me?" I wanted to go in with Dad, but I did not want to be rude, and he was still talking with the other men. So Grandma and I went in arm in arm. Shortly after getting inside she was surrounded by others offering condolences, and Dad reappeared and we went inside the funeral home.

Ma had warned us that there would be standing room only, but we arrived early enough that we got seats. We saw Ma at the other side of the room but she didn't notice us. At the front was a stand with a little wooden box, and pictures of Grandpa, and lots of flowers and plants positioned around it. "What happens to the plants?" I asked Dad. He said that either people take them, or they get thrown away. I felt sad about that. There was this one pretty green plant with a yellow ribbon that I paid lots of attention to throughout the service. If I had not thought it would be so rude, I would have asked for that plant. Because it was the only nonflowering one, and looked like it might not be cut and could actually be raised. More to come on the plant in a bit.

It took a great while for everyone to arrive--like I said it's a VERY big family--and I was surprised that the attendees included Sharon and June, and Dad's mother and her boyfriend George, and Kenneth R., the husband of my old psychologist. (He didn't know me, of course; he must have been there to take photos, as he's a professional photographer.) Family had also come up from Texas; June, my Aunt Carol, and my Aunt Donna from Texas all complimented me on my hair. o_o;;; If they only knew how much trouble the junk still gives ME...well, at least they liked it.

Part of that argument I'd had with Ma earlier on, BTW? "How is it," I'd groused to Dad afterwards, "that when it comes to my hair and I say, 'It looks awful!' Ma will say, 'Oh, nobody will notice,' yet when it comes to PANTS, I say, 'Nobody will care,' but heaven forbid I should show up with some old ones on lest EVERYBODY notice!" Nobody seemed to notice my pants, BTW. At least, nobody said anything about them, nor about my old jacket, which Ma had been reluctant to let me wear. (None of the things she'd bought fit, so pfft.)

Finally everyone settled down--Ma at last saw and joined us--and Earl B., the bishop--who is also a relative, like a second cousin or uncle or something to me--officiated. I must kind of gloss over this part of the funeral because it made very little sense to me. Like I said it's a family of Catholics, and as I was raised with no religion whatsoever, from either parent (Dad is Methodist, and his mother is religious, but he seems pretty agnostic and as for Ma, I have no clue and don't really care to know), most of what was said went over my head. But truth to tell, I think I was probably listening the most closely in that room, simply because I've never heard any of it before. There was lots of standing up, and then sitting down again, and then standing up again to pray. I stared at the floor near the front of the room a lot while this happened. Every time everybody said...I can't even remember what they said, something like, "Lord, so may it be" or some such...I said nothing. When they started on "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..." I didn't echo what the bishop said, like everybody else did. I just stood and listened. And I noticed after a while with some discomfort that EVERYBODY in that room sounded incredibly...bored with it all. There was no life to any of the prayers, whatsoever. I got the feeling of a bunch of schoolkids reciting a lesson that's been drilled into them. Everyone sounded very dull and apathetic. Except for Bishop Earl, of course. He sounded like he meant all of what he read, but then again, he was officiating; he's meant to sound like he means it, isn't he?

As I could not mourn for Grandpa, since I didn't really miss him--I knew he had been feeling very ill, and it was best that he had gone--I instead went over my thoughts and mental reactions to this whole thing. Being surrounded by people who have actually been brought up with religion--at least, they knew all the words, and I could not even recite the whole of the Lord's Prayer. Organized religion is foreign to me, and what little I've picked up from others, I do not like. I literally got this very weird feeling when Bishop Earl first appeared. I always have this very weird feeling when in the presence of priests. Part of me wants to bow my head and respect them more than anything else. The other part of me...wants to bare my teeth and have nothing whatsoever to do with them. Half of me finds them faultless, beings to be put on pedestals, listened to and revered; half of me finds them detestable, judgemental, blind, and cruel. So when Bishop Earl walked by and then started talking, I just stood there and felt very weird and confused. I had no clue HOW to react, so I...just didn't. (Part of me wanted to approach him after the service and start asking deep theological questions--"Do you think unrepentant sinners will actually burn in hell for all eternity? Do you think gays are evil?" Well, that's as deep as *I* can get. The other part of me was hitting that part over the head and screaming, "WHY WOULD YOU ASK HIM THAT? YOU ALREADY KNOW WHAT HE THINKS!!" When the truth is, no I don't. Sheesh, every Catholic is different, for crying out loud. o_o But I was too afraid to find out how unalike we were, lest I grow disillusioned all over again. He came across as a kindly man; I did not want to learn that he really does think gays and such will burn in hell. It's best not to know if you can't handle the truth.)

Anyway, I sat--and stood--and sat--and listened to the different Bible selections read, and the little speeches given by Bishop Earl, and to the reactions of those around me, and compared all of this to what was going through my head regarding all of this. Like I said, religion is something everybody around me seemed to be taking for granted, since they've grown up with it--at least, their deadpan parroting of Bishop Earl's prayers made that seem pretty evident. Aside from my aversion to organized religion, I seemed to be the most unbiased of the group and I actually listened to all of it, even if it didn't make sense. The Bible prayers just went over me; they didn't seem to have any bearing on me. When Bishop Earl started offering his own commentary, that's when I noticed more. He talked about fallen soldiers in battle--all the dead were found to have been carrying idols under their armor, whereas those who lived had not carried idols. He said that the living then offered prayers for the dead, to cleanse them of their sins in death. That was news to me. I know people pray for the dead, but I didn't know that a living Christian's prayers could offer hope for a dead heathen--I mean, isn't that heathen supposed to have asked for forgiveness and accepted Jesus or some such? How can you be forgiven and accepted into Heaven if you don't ask for it? And how can you ask for it after you're dead? That's what the last rites are for, after all, aren't they? Ask for forgiveness before you die, because afterwards, there are no second chances? I found it very confusing that now apparently even those who had not accepted Jesus before death might be saved somehow. Maybe I misunderstood something. I couldn't tell. Part of me was a bit irate that heathens (by this I mean, in this entry, simply non-Christians) were automatically relegated to hell for carrying their idols--although I KNEW this was what the Catholic church teaches and only what Bishop Earl had to say, I mean, it's a Catholic funeral, do I expect him to say otherwise??--but part of me also wondered about that, praying for the dead to be forgiven. How strange and retroactive.

He went on to talk about how Grandpa was still with us even as he spoke--all around us--touching every one of us. I found this puzzling too, though not nearly as much as the last comment. I've always kind of figured that it's a Christian belief that the spirits of the dead watch over us in a way, that they are always with us, even if only in our hearts; I mean, most religions teach something like this. But the way he put it made me think of my own ideas regarding spirit/spirits, how I feel they are all around us, everywhere, touching everything--in the air, the water, the trees, even in the buildings and the earth and everything else. He made Grandpa sound like one of those spirits I have lately been thinking of. It's a good thing this was a funeral and it was expected, because hearing this Christian thought so similar to my own non-Christian thoughts...well, I think I was probably the one crying the hardest at that funeral, weirdly enough. The only thing is, I bet nobody around me knows I was not even crying for Grandpa. I was crying for me. And I'm not even sure why, so I'm sorry that I can't make this entry make more sense. Was it confusion? Sadness? Hope? All of these? I think it was all of them, but I really don't know.

Before the talking had started, I had noticed everyone stepping up to Grandpa's little box and kneeling down in front of it. A few didn't kneel, but stood and looked at it; a pair of young girls went up hand-in-hand and pointed at the pictures and chattered. But most people knelt. I wondered about that; I can only guess they were praying to him, or something. I thought one was only meant to kneel at the altar, unless this was considered an altar? Sheesh, I never knew how utterly ignorant I am of my own named faith until now. I had thoughts of going up there and just touching the box--I could not kneel, as that was a religious gesture, and I did not feel right doing that--but I didn't have the courage to. So I stayed at my seat. But I kept looking at the flower arrangements and at that plant. One of the arrangements had a big wooden stick in it. That struck me as appropriate--because Grandpa always loved big wooden carvings, and loved to work with woodcarving himself. I've known that for years, but when Bishop Earl asked each of us to think over what Grandpa had meant to us in life, it struck home even more.

I stared up at the little box and thought, firstly, Grandpa liked working with wood. I love trees. Grandpa loved trees in his own way. He made art with them. Grandpa is connected to the trees. He's in that stick, and in that plant, and in those flowers and all around us. Just like Bishop Earl had said, although I'm not quite sure he meant it that way.

And my second thought was of one of the reasons part of me detests priests so much. It had to do with when I was born. Before then, even. For the Church would not marry my parents, unless they agreed that any babies born would be baptized as Catholic. My parents agreed, and my brother, when he was born, was accordingly baptized. And then when *I* was born, five years later...the priest had refused. REFUSED! I'm sorry to harp on this so much but this stings me bitterly to this very day, and I'm not even a practicing Catholic! When Ma first told me about this, years ago, it didn't really affect me, but as time goes by and religion and faith are more on my mind, it hurts more and more. The same Church that refused to marry my parents unless the children were baptized into its own faith REFUSED to baptize ME! As Ma tried to explain to me, the priest was old, and going senile, and of course, even I know he did not/does not represent every Catholic priest out there, and if only a different priest had been present, I probably would have been baptized, no problem. BUT...one priest DID refuse...this was a man ordained by the Church itself, so the Church considered him worthy of speaking for God. As far as I know, the Church did nothing to rectify the situation when I was not baptized by this man. As far as I know, no other priest offered to take his place. And even though of course they cannot know how badly this hurts me to this day, none have ever apologized, or explained why this was allowed to happen. Ma told me, he refused to baptize me because he said I'd turn out bad. Well, what do you call this but a self-fulfilling prophecy? I know I'm bad--and I was bad even before I knew of this incident. But now that I know of it, I'm just angrier, and even more bad, because knowing that the Church refused ME made ME refuse the Church. If I was not good enough even as a newborn baby, who had not committed one single sin yet, to receive baptism, then I do not want to be part of that faith. Their spokesman, the priest, judged me the moment I was born. So I'll judge them right back. They think I would turn out bad? Fine, then--here I am, as bad as anything. I would have turned out bad either way, but this old man is the reason why I accept that title now and fling it in the Church's face. Because they were the ones who proclaimed it before it had even happened yet, and refused to grant me the one thing they had insisted on happening even before I was born. They reneged! So screw it. I don't want to be part of a path that judges babies before they have even committed their first sin yet. What did this old man know that I would do that would be SO awful as to warrant a refusal of baptism? As compared to every other baby I'm sure he baptized? What made ME stand out as so very evil? I have no clue. He's long dead, I'll never find out.

To any Catholics reading this, I apologize if I've (almost positively) offended you, but I'm speaking of my OWN experience...like I said I know this man does not stand for the entire Church, and I know there are good priests, decent priests...I just got stuck with one of the bad ones. I know, even, that there are Catholic priests who do not believe gays will burn in hell, and there are some who, even though they believe homosexuality is a sin, do not constantly sit there and judge because of it, because we all sin and one sin is no greater than another. Even Bishop Earl seemed to say that unrepentant sinners have hope (though I could have really misinterpreted that, which I think I did). But keep in mind that it's OFFICIAL Church doctrine that certain things that hurt no one are bad, that things which don't stand a chance of harming anyone are detrimental and even threatening to family life, that law should be rewritten to include the Christian religious code--it's official Vatican word on this, and they are the head of the Church. So it seems that those Catholics who I find most in tune with what I believe about things are at least partly breaking with official Church doctrine. But who am I to say. I wasn't even baptized.

Only...I was. To get back to why this thought crossed my mind when Bishop Earl told us to think of what Grandpa meant to us personally...I remembered what he meant to me. Because after the old priest refused, it was Grandpa who baptized me. My GRANDPA, who did what the Church refused to do. That act itself means nothing to me, because I really have no clue what the deal is with baptism; some people say it's necessary, some say it isn't, and I don't really care either way. Rather, it's what lay behind the act that made me start to cry. Grandpa stepped in where the Church failed me. He performed this act that means nothing to me, for a faith that I don't even understand and don't even follow, but he performed it. That was the important thing--not what he did, but simply that he DID it. He shouldn't have had to, and didn't have to, but he did. This act that means nothing to me told me that *I*, at least, must have meant something to HIM, for him to do it. The Church refused me. Grandpa didn't. He was there, when they were not.

I've never been particularly close to Grandpa, and I still am not. But remembering that one thing he did made my eyes start streaming. Nobody in that room will ever know how much that meant to me. And they will never even know why it means so much. Not for the reasons they would think it does, obviously. I won't tell them otherwise...I hate the thought of them finding out that I'm not the good Christian they think I should be.

The funeral went on, but not for long. Eventually it ended with a song, and we left single file. I had stared at that plant a good while; I had wanted to bring it home and try to raise it, for it would have been like keeping a part of Grandpa alive. Bishop Earl himself had said he was still with us, all around us, and I felt he would be in the plants and the wood most of all. But I did not ask because I felt it would be rude. Show up at a funeral--stay behind to say, "I want that plant! Dibs!!"

Grandma stopped me at the door. I think my excess of tears confused her. She hugged me again and said something about crying--maybe asking me not to? I can't blame her for being confused, if she was; it's not like I ever visited Grandpa any time recently. :/ I didn't let her know it wasn't even him I was crying about.

...WELL, it is now another day later, as I could not finish up this entry in one sitting alone. So now it's Sunday and not Saturday. Moving on...

I left the funeral home and went down the steps and toward the strip of lawn just beside the road. It was bright and sunny and warmer than the forecast had predicted it would be. I spotted a small tree of some sort planted here and went toward it. The branches were too low for me to stand under it without crouching, so I stood kind of beside and within it with the leaves around me a bit. I touched a leaf and then touched one of the gnarled branches. I don't know what kind of tree it was. Just a little ornamental thing. I touched it and offered some kind of unspoken thought...I realize "unspoken thought" sounds kind of redundant, but I don't know what else to call it. I had noticed I did this while the others were praying out loud during the funeral. Whenever they said "Amen" or "Lord, let it be" or whatever they said, I didn't speak out loud, but I did try to offer something in my mind. I thought perhaps I should echo their words mentally. But I found that whenever they spoke and I thought, this didn't happen. I felt too uncomfortable putting my silent prayers into any kind of words, even mental ones. So I just stood there and kind of...thought without enunciating anything, even mentally. Just vague feeling-thoughts, rather than word-thoughts. Does that make any sense? Have you ever wanted to offer some kind of prayer but you don't have any of the right words, so you just "feel" what you intend to say, and leave it at that? I don't know if anybody does that. I'm a very verbally oriented person and I can even "hear" entire scenes of dialogue in my head--that's how I write. Even as I write this, I hear my own voice talking in my mind. But when it comes to prayers often all I can do is just...feel. I just stood the entire time and offered these vague feeling-thoughts while everybody else spoke aloud because I had no words, even unspoken ones, to make it sound right. If I try to put them into too many coherent words I start to feel very awkward again, like I might get it wrong if I say the wrong things. A feeling is often a truer thing than a word, so I guess I just feel safer offering those instead. *shrug* I dunno.

Well...I stood by this tree and touched its branch and did the same thing. I would have felt very stupid thinking something like, "Put in a good word for Grandpa," because truthfully, I don't know WHAT I wanted to think. I just know I wanted to think something meaningful, so that entire ceremony wasn't a waste. Maybe that's why I refuse to put them into words--I don't always even consciously know what I want to offer. Feelings are more subconscious, more unconscious, than thoughts and words--I know I often feel a certain way without even knowing why until much later! Rather than offering up some stilted thought-prayers that might not even convey what I wanted them to convey, I guess I just offered some feelings and hoped that the tree or God or whoever could put them in their proper context. That's what God's for, anyway. He doesn't need to figure things out because He knows everything already, right? Feeling is more basic and often less cluttered and weighted down than thought so you can't really go wrong offering it, I suppose. Maybe after I'm done with this entry somebody should have me committed, that's how I'm starting to sound here.

It was already a breezy day, so this was likely just me. But I noticed that as soon as I touched the branch and "felt"...the wind picked up, and all the leaves started fluttering around me. I looked up into them and then the breeze died down again. That was rather odd. I took my hand away from the tree as Dad had appeared and we got into his vehicle and left.

Dad and I started chattering as we drove home. I can't even remember what about now; the Wanigan Race was going to occur the following day (Saturday), and so we talked about that somewhat since I had no clue what a wanigan even was. When we either slowed or started up from a stop at one point I glanced out the window to notice a bird go racing out from beneath the vehicle to the sidewalk, where it started pecking around. What a close call!! I can't believe that thing just zoomed right under a moving vehicle. It was a cute little brown bird like a sparrow or something. We made our way home.

I managed to get some sleep and dreamed that Ma and I were shopping and I kept picking up different journals and pads of stationery before ending up getting lost in the store. I saw a book named after a Genesis song, "Hold On My Heart." At one point I picked up the wrong pad of stationery, and I kept wandering all over with despair that I'd never find my way out until right before waking up I glanced up to see a giant sign telling me where the stationery aisle was again. I had no clue how I'd missed it. (More complete description at http://tehuti.dreamjournal.org/ and http://tdreamjournal.tripod.com/ --June 26's "Get Me Out Of This Store!!", whenever I get it posted.)

That evening Ma and I went shopping at Wal-Mart as always. And yes, I did get some journals... :P It was raining when we left home and arrived there, though fortunately my hair was still wet from washing it so the rain didn't affect it much. (I have nothing, absolutely NOTHING, to help my hair to stop frizzing after it gets wet or humid. And I have tried just about EVERYTHING within my budget. *sigh*) As we drove I dared to mention how everybody at the service had seemed so bored with the prayer recital, to which Ma responded, "Well, a lot of them aren't Catholic." Well, even if that's true, that didn't strike me as a reason why they should have been so bored with it...I mean, even if the ritual was Catholic, the prayers were well known enough for everybody but me to know them, so how come they all sounded so weary of the thing? I didn't tell her so, but I just got this distinct feeling that everyone in that room had had the ritual pounded into them (not literally speaking of course) for so long that by now it meant very little to them and they were tired of it. I only hadn't recited it because I hadn't known it, and even if I had it didn't seem right for me to do so. I think I feel kind of sorry for them that the rituals of their own faith have become so trite and lifeless through repetition. This is only the impression I got; I could be wrong, though none of my relatives have ever struck me as being particularly religious. But if I am right, I find it sad. One's own faith shouldn't be something so dull that it induces boredom. :/ I stated how I hadn't been able to follow the prayers myself and she was rather quick to say (as if seeking to avoid an argument), "You don't have to." I said that I knew that, it just felt kind of awkward; especially since I didn't consider myself Catholic. And then I murmured, I wasn't even sure I could consider myself Christian. I don't think she caught the significance of the comment or cared if she did; I didn't elaborate. Inside Wal-Mart, all the TVs suspended from the ceiling were set on loud static for some odd reason; Ma detested it and wanted to get away from them as soon as possible, though I found it soothing, since I sleep with noise like that.

We left and picked up something to eat at McDonald's for me and then stopped at Holiday so Ma could pick something up while I waited in the car. As I ate my fries I noticed that the tops of the trees along the river were oddly orange. :/ Only sunlight does that, yet it was after eight at night and the sky was almost completely covered with clouds; it had been clearing in the west when we left Wal-Mart, but only a thin band of yellow had been visible. I kept my eye on the treetops and realized that yes, they were in fact lit up--and now even the trees themselves and the parking lot wet with rain were lighting up too. I craned my neck to look out the other window and saw that the cloud cover was receding and there was this BRILLIANT pink-orange light shining over everything! It was so gorgeous! It was even starting to flood inside the big windows at Holiday where Ma was busy talking with somebody. I kept squirming all over in my seat to look at the way the light hit everything; I held up my hand and saw how beautifully pink it was. Ma came out and I exclaimed, "Look at that sunlight!"

She said in response, "There's this HUGE rainbow over the road!" As soon as she got in and we pulled out into the street, sure enough, there it was in the direction we were heading--a gigantic rainbow, bigger than any I believe I've ever seen. The sky behind us was now turning brilliant orange-red, and the rainbow just hovered high before us as we drove. I stared and marveled at it the entire time. I even ventured to say something I thought it might not be wise to say.

I pointed up at the rainbow. "Now you see, something like that means a WHOLE lot more to me than a bunch of talking from a priest."

I don't really know what, if anything, I expected her to reply with. I certainly wasn't going to tell her that I try to "talk" to trees and rabbits and birds and rocks as if they are sentient things--if she doesn't think I'm crazy, then she'll think I'm some kind of Satanist or something! (Yes, that's how she tends to think...I merely read about criminal Satanism and she gets leery, like I'm thinking of converting. No offense to real Satanists, but I find their path too lefthanded for me.) What she replied with anyway was, "Somewhere up there, Grandpa's sitting right now."

! Well go figure. It's not what I envision literally, but that comment is probably the closest Ma has ever come to matching anything I have been thinking lately.

I thought about how in the Bible (yes, I read it once--a teen version which a religious friend in school got me--if she knew what I'm thinking right now she would probably feel sad that I'm going to burn in hell) the rainbow was the sign of...what was it, God's covenant with man, following the flood? Bla bla, I can't bother getting into the details since I read the Bible only once and only Psalms and Proverbs struck me as being of any lasting interest. I just remembered that the rainbow had significance in Christian mythology (for want of a better word--any religious system has its own system of mythology), and even in my own writing, where on Manitou Island X'aaru is the one who brings rainbows which can transport people into different places. In the original story, he takes Charmian through a rainbow to meet a rather Godlike being called the Dreamer. To make a long story short, there was a big rainbow, it just seemed significant after the day's events. Synchronicity, if you want me to get all Jungian, which I'm sure you don't.

The rainbow lasted the entire drive home--odd, since they usually don't last so long, and the sunlight was rapidly fading. This thing was HUGE. As we turned the corner it literally looked like it was landing somewhere on top of our home, just out of sight, though it shifted as we went around bends in the road. It faded but still stuck around. We got home, unloaded the groceries...watched TV...returned to regular life. Well, I hope so. Ma still seems to be holding up, at least.

I would sum all that up with some deep thought about spirituality but it's not coming to me, sorry. I'll let whoever has dragged their mangled and bleeding body through that entire thing to figure out the meaning of all this on their own. Maybe there is no meaning, eh. :/

Only semi-related nature news...Mr. and Mrs. Bunting are still visiting semiregularly to eat from the porch, and I can't get over how much like a little flying piece of blue topaz or lapis Mr. Bunting looks like...'Bozho is also still visiting the porch in the mornings, and he/she/it/whatever is very nice and sleek looking. Rather small for a rabbit, but very cute, with big ears that flick every which way just like his namesake's head feathers; I got some pictures of him yesterday, ha ha :P ...and I am glad that the Muffin did NOT actually scare off another one of our nocturnal visitors who I first noticed a few weeks back with much surprise--a large black cat which stops by the front porch to hunt mice! It looks JUST like Pepper except without the white chest spot! :D When I first saw it my eyes nearly fell out of my head! I wonder now...I just thought of this. Back when Pepper was still alive Ma once glanced out the window--I did so on a different occasion too--to see a big black cat relaxing on the sidewalk below, and we both freaked out, thinking Pepper had escaped, only to realize she was still in the house behind us. The cat was some sort of doppelganger! Well, this is probably not THAT same cat...but when I noticed it on the porch a while back, I managed to very, very carefully open the door and slide out a plate with a few pieces of cooked sausage on it, without scaring it off. It hovered nearby and I slowly shut the door--the Muffin was peeking out from between my legs as I did this--and peered out the door window to see it creeping up the steps and edging toward the food. :D ! I then made the mistake of lifting the Muffin up to look down at it as it was JUST about to pick up a piece of sausage...and he chose that ONE time to be manly. He let out this guttural "MrroOOWRRrrr," puffed up, and hissed for only the SECOND time in his entire life. The black cat heard him through the door...and fled. >:/ Dumb Muffin! Like a cat hunting mice out on the porch and eating food he would never even touch is so threatening. All the rest of the time he's such a girly-girl, and only NOW does he act all macho. I was so disappointed; I wanted the Pepper-Doppelganger to know it was welcome here. I put the Muffin back down--it was dumb of me to let him see somebody wandering around on his turf, I know--and scolded him but that was all I could do. The sausage sat out there all the rest of the day and the rest of the next night, untouched even by skunks or possums or those Siamese-twin raccoons (see Guests!). :( It disappeared the morning after, and I left out a piece of ham the next night which also disappeared, but I didn't know what had gotten them. I thought for sure the Pepper-Doppelganger was gone.

But no!--I happened to turn on the porch light Friday night and...there it was! Just crouching on the second step and staring at the side of the house, waiting for mice to appear--it lifted its head and looked up at me rather lazily, I waved, and then turned off the light. When I turned on the light again a moment later, it was still there in the same position, and gave me the same look. I turned the light off and left it alone. It's back! :D I hope it finds lots of mice to eat, because God knows the Muffin will catch them but never eat them. I wish I could feed it myself; it looks like it could be Pepper's reincarnation. Uncanny.

And WELL...I guess that's all. This entry should last any readers for a month or so, because writing this took so damned long, I'm probably going to be that averse to writing anything else in here for a month or so, and for that I know you're glad.

Not proofread. Tar...