Running and a funeral
It's really been a hectic weekend, and yet relaxing, in a way. The hours have flown by and suddenly it was ten o'clock and I was staring at the ceiling, in darkness, half dreaming.
It all started on Thursday night, 11 p.m., when the telephone rang and I knew my grandmother was dead. Very sudden, and with my father away for work, Friday was a combination of research to have him back as soon as possible, my mother overtired for spending the night at the retirement house to fix all the things for the funeral, me...running, running, running; and then phone calls, my hysterical boss, a sudden order from Turkey to set, and the wake, with six yawning people and a yawning priest reciting prayer after prayer. All very quiet.
When I arrived and saw my grandmother in the coffin I thought I was in the wrong room, that couldn't be her, her face was too different, her colour too brown: they must have used too much make up. My mother arrived with a picture and that was when I could see that it was her, only different: three years without seeing her have been a real lot, but her eyes and her lips brought back all the images of the past. Her sad blue eyes, her purple lips.
I ran, once at home, and showered, and went to the band; nothing special to be said, but I did played better than usual, focusing on my breathing for the first time with the consciousness of how wrong I've breathed for all this time. I remembered the breathing exercises when I begin to play, 12 years ago, and lying on the floor with two dictionaries on my belly and breathing in, breathing out, filling, emptying. I am slowly going back to that good practice, and it does feel good.
(I shouldn't say this, being focussed to think about anything else but the back-and-shoulder guy: but on Thursday he made me lie on the bench, sat beside me, made me breath and practised a massage to make my breathing fuller, richer: in the end I got up slowly, feeling dizzy, too much oxygen in me, and his warm touch still there. And at some point, before beginning on the left side, while he was talking to the other trainer, he carelessly caressed my arm, index and middle finger moving slowly on my skin. God, I must stop this).
So anyway. After rehearsal we went to a pub and discussed lots of things: the end of our friend's relationship, the website, my irresistible crush or whatever it is for the back-and-shoulder guy (who from now on is going to be simply "the B&S guy"). I like going out for a drink and a chat after playing: shame that we never do, for they all have boyfriends, and companies of friends to see yet again on Friday even if they meet five times a week. Anyway.
I came home at one o'clock and slept little; Saturday morning was a slow walk at the market, a coffee, and back home to watch tv, and then playing for a while with the children before going to the funeral.
The funeral. It started with us at the retirement house, some more prayers, another priest (not the same of Friday) asking what the name of the woman was, reciting a few prayers, saying goodbye. I wonder what my father was thinking, or feeling, as he looked at his mother lying there, as he watched while the men closed the coffin and put it in the car.
Then we all left for the church, and there was the mess, which was a concentration of yawns by me, mostly due to the tone of the priest, whose voice was just typical, a hypnotic sequence of sounds with roughly no meaning. And all the while there was this question in my mind, set off after hearing the first priest, on Friday, talking of how Christian souls will be buried in blessed earth for a peaceful beginning of the after-life.
And this is me thinking: "Hello? I'm not a Christian, Catholic or whatever, never have been, my parents didn't have me nor my brother christened in a snap of democratic 70s rebellion against the dogma of the Church which is almost ruling our country on the moral and ethical point of view, and all these years I've never felt the urge of a conversion, and am happy to live like this, so....where do I go when I die?". I'm not talking of my soul, no, I can't be bothered to head towards a philosophical discussion now, but...my dead body? The coffin and the flowers and the picture and a nice quote to remember me...What happens after my last breath? Sometimes this thought pops in, but the idea of me dead is still strange and remote, although the necessity of preparing some sort of will is floating in my mind at times, when I think about all the books, the diaries, everything that I've got. But I am treading on dangerous grounds, now, and I have no time for (nor do I feel like) it.
What I was saying is, I've been running and running and running. Exercising till I almost got cramps, and my legs felt so heavy after the shower, when I went back upstairs in my room, and yet I would have done more. I'm not even eating much, and it makes me feel so well. I have lost another kilo in a week, and all this running really feels good. My hypochondriac me wonders if this is not the famous work-out addition, while my other me can't wait for this evening, and the music, and the treadmill, and the shower. I have worn my red top from Trinity College today, after trying it on once, when I bought it two months ago, and that time I saw that it was slightly adherent, but today it fits, no, it's large on me. How cool is that. I can't wait to go running tonight.
I always think that if I am thinner I will find a boyfriend, I will be attractive enough and be noticed. This obsession...I can't get rid of it, even in my best times.
I know I have given myself only one week more to fantasise about the B&S guy, but this week includes the important action of talking to him. Which means, when he asks me how my job is going, I should say more. More than my "well, not bad" answer. Let him know me, let him see something of me that goes beyond my shoulder problems and my (good) flexibility. Maybe I can start a kind of weak friendship, after all.
I understand I am not very lucid, today. But these are confused times.
(Later, this afternoon)
I like thinking about you.
I like seeing your face in my mind, feeling your touch on me like a hand on a cold window, while it's snowing outside.
I like inventing stories about you, about how we talk, and what we say, about how you take my hand and caress me, about how I slowly fall asleep in your arms.
You have awakened feelings that I thought were lost, crumpled up in some corner of my body. I ache all over when I think about you.
It's always a sudden image flashing in my mind.
I bend to silence the pain. I take deep breaths. I think about something else.
And that is when your face appears, stronger than ever, and pushes to get to my heart, to make me say the words that I don't dare say. That I never said.
Things have no shape anymore. I am drowning, I am blind.
Where is this taking me?
First it's excitement and madness.
Then jealousy.
Pain, and disappointment follow.
Enter sadness, followed by anger.
Curtain.
It all started on Thursday night, 11 p.m., when the telephone rang and I knew my grandmother was dead. Very sudden, and with my father away for work, Friday was a combination of research to have him back as soon as possible, my mother overtired for spending the night at the retirement house to fix all the things for the funeral, me...running, running, running; and then phone calls, my hysterical boss, a sudden order from Turkey to set, and the wake, with six yawning people and a yawning priest reciting prayer after prayer. All very quiet.
When I arrived and saw my grandmother in the coffin I thought I was in the wrong room, that couldn't be her, her face was too different, her colour too brown: they must have used too much make up. My mother arrived with a picture and that was when I could see that it was her, only different: three years without seeing her have been a real lot, but her eyes and her lips brought back all the images of the past. Her sad blue eyes, her purple lips.
I ran, once at home, and showered, and went to the band; nothing special to be said, but I did played better than usual, focusing on my breathing for the first time with the consciousness of how wrong I've breathed for all this time. I remembered the breathing exercises when I begin to play, 12 years ago, and lying on the floor with two dictionaries on my belly and breathing in, breathing out, filling, emptying. I am slowly going back to that good practice, and it does feel good.
(I shouldn't say this, being focussed to think about anything else but the back-and-shoulder guy: but on Thursday he made me lie on the bench, sat beside me, made me breath and practised a massage to make my breathing fuller, richer: in the end I got up slowly, feeling dizzy, too much oxygen in me, and his warm touch still there. And at some point, before beginning on the left side, while he was talking to the other trainer, he carelessly caressed my arm, index and middle finger moving slowly on my skin. God, I must stop this).
So anyway. After rehearsal we went to a pub and discussed lots of things: the end of our friend's relationship, the website, my irresistible crush or whatever it is for the back-and-shoulder guy (who from now on is going to be simply "the B&S guy"). I like going out for a drink and a chat after playing: shame that we never do, for they all have boyfriends, and companies of friends to see yet again on Friday even if they meet five times a week. Anyway.
I came home at one o'clock and slept little; Saturday morning was a slow walk at the market, a coffee, and back home to watch tv, and then playing for a while with the children before going to the funeral.
The funeral. It started with us at the retirement house, some more prayers, another priest (not the same of Friday) asking what the name of the woman was, reciting a few prayers, saying goodbye. I wonder what my father was thinking, or feeling, as he looked at his mother lying there, as he watched while the men closed the coffin and put it in the car.
Then we all left for the church, and there was the mess, which was a concentration of yawns by me, mostly due to the tone of the priest, whose voice was just typical, a hypnotic sequence of sounds with roughly no meaning. And all the while there was this question in my mind, set off after hearing the first priest, on Friday, talking of how Christian souls will be buried in blessed earth for a peaceful beginning of the after-life.
And this is me thinking: "Hello? I'm not a Christian, Catholic or whatever, never have been, my parents didn't have me nor my brother christened in a snap of democratic 70s rebellion against the dogma of the Church which is almost ruling our country on the moral and ethical point of view, and all these years I've never felt the urge of a conversion, and am happy to live like this, so....where do I go when I die?". I'm not talking of my soul, no, I can't be bothered to head towards a philosophical discussion now, but...my dead body? The coffin and the flowers and the picture and a nice quote to remember me...What happens after my last breath? Sometimes this thought pops in, but the idea of me dead is still strange and remote, although the necessity of preparing some sort of will is floating in my mind at times, when I think about all the books, the diaries, everything that I've got. But I am treading on dangerous grounds, now, and I have no time for (nor do I feel like) it.
What I was saying is, I've been running and running and running. Exercising till I almost got cramps, and my legs felt so heavy after the shower, when I went back upstairs in my room, and yet I would have done more. I'm not even eating much, and it makes me feel so well. I have lost another kilo in a week, and all this running really feels good. My hypochondriac me wonders if this is not the famous work-out addition, while my other me can't wait for this evening, and the music, and the treadmill, and the shower. I have worn my red top from Trinity College today, after trying it on once, when I bought it two months ago, and that time I saw that it was slightly adherent, but today it fits, no, it's large on me. How cool is that. I can't wait to go running tonight.
I always think that if I am thinner I will find a boyfriend, I will be attractive enough and be noticed. This obsession...I can't get rid of it, even in my best times.
I know I have given myself only one week more to fantasise about the B&S guy, but this week includes the important action of talking to him. Which means, when he asks me how my job is going, I should say more. More than my "well, not bad" answer. Let him know me, let him see something of me that goes beyond my shoulder problems and my (good) flexibility. Maybe I can start a kind of weak friendship, after all.
I understand I am not very lucid, today. But these are confused times.
(Later, this afternoon)
I like thinking about you.
I like seeing your face in my mind, feeling your touch on me like a hand on a cold window, while it's snowing outside.
I like inventing stories about you, about how we talk, and what we say, about how you take my hand and caress me, about how I slowly fall asleep in your arms.
You have awakened feelings that I thought were lost, crumpled up in some corner of my body. I ache all over when I think about you.
It's always a sudden image flashing in my mind.
I bend to silence the pain. I take deep breaths. I think about something else.
And that is when your face appears, stronger than ever, and pushes to get to my heart, to make me say the words that I don't dare say. That I never said.
Things have no shape anymore. I am drowning, I am blind.
Where is this taking me?
First it's excitement and madness.
Then jealousy.
Pain, and disappointment follow.
Enter sadness, followed by anger.
Curtain.
posted by Peggy @ 11:05 AM
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