on death and dying (and maybe resurrection)

Warning: This post is mostly serious, and not really very funny at all. Sorry.

Late yesterday afternoon I fell into a bit of a funk, reflecting on the fragility of life, and the loss we feel when we someone we love dies. Yeah, I could have picked a better topic to think about. Win some, lose some.

Easter week is always bittersweet for me. Having grown up in a faithful Christian family, Easter was one of the high points of each year, with the added bonus of the ever-popular Easter Bunny-induced chocolate-feasting sugar rush.

Then my brother had to go and kill himself during Easter week about 12 years ago. At the time I found his subconscious timing very significant: I mean, if you hate your life and want a new one, what better time to make a change, right? Re-awakening, re-birth, resurrection... they all seem particularly possible during the first few weeks of spring.

I'm sure he didn't realize how much he would f*ck up Easter for the rest of us, though - that year, and in the years to follow. I remember that one of the funeral home visitations fell on Good Friday, and we had to postpone his actual funeral until Easter Monday.

He left this existence on a Wednesday afternoon, probably sometime between 4:30 and 5:30PM, when my parents found him. I'm not big on anniversaries (even missed my best friend's birthday this year - doh!), so I never notice when the actual anniversary of his death has gone by. But I vividly remember the events of that Easter week, and last night around 5PM I found myself thinking, It was on a day like today, on this particular day of the week, at this time of day, that my brother made the decision to finally give up, and take his own life.

And I felt sad.

My feelings were heightened by the knowledge that a little girl that one of my Twitter followers knew has died in the last day or two. TheBloggess normally writes bitingly funny stuff that makes me laugh out loud, but not yesterday.

Death puts the people who are left behind in a kind of weird limbo. That's what I remember the most about my brother's death. For about a week, I was shocked that life could go on - that other people out there were working and playing and laughing and swearing and generally just living their lives as if nothing of significance had happened. Mourning his death separated me from the rest of the world - sealed me in an insulated bubble where the only things that existed were pain, memories and (thankfully) semi-regular infusions of grace and caring from the people who loved me and my family.

So Easter week is bittersweet for me. I still love Easter Sunday, and singing Alleluias. But I'm also wary of the pain traps that may be lying in wait around the corner of each day once Palm Sunday (the Sunday before Easter) is past. And sometimes I feel like I'm being dragged reluctantly through the entire Easter experience - desperately wanting the assurance of renewed life, but unwilling to suffer through the accompanying reflections on death that it requires. And I feel for the young couple that has just lost their baby girl: They, too, will experience the special sadness of Easter every year, as my family does.

I've been listening to some recorded lectures by Clarissa Pinkola Estes - the well-known Jungian psychoanalyst and author of Women Who Run with the Wolves - this week. In one lecture Estes says that the wound is the only thing that brings light. She asks, "What good can come from allowing what is good and ready to die?" The wounds are doors, she insists - doors to the new life.

Open the door, I tell myself. Step through. David died; Madeline died. But the rest of us are still here, with more living to do...

i killed my basting brush

For everyone who wants to know what I did to my basting brush (an explanation assembled from a number of tweets on Twitter):

I have a cast iron frying pan. Old-fashioned things appeal to me. Plus it adds iron to my food, and heaven knows I need iron.

What with all the blood I lose every month.

The thing about cast iron frying pans is, things tend to stick to them. (In this particular equation, "things" = "food.")

And to prevent "things" from sticking to cast iron pans, you need to occasionally "season" them.

And to "season" cast iron pans, you basically need to burn oil in them. Until the burnt oil creates a coating that keeps food from sticking.

In theory, if not in practice.

Mom, you'll be happy to know that my smoke alarm is still working.

the process of being funny

I have always envied comedians - especially improv specialists. I would watch them perform onstage, and marvel at how they could be so funny without any (apparent) effort or preparation.

One of the qualities I have always loved about my best friend is that she seems to live with one foot squarely in the realm of the sublimely ridiculous at all times. I have occasionally thought of funny things to say, myself... but usually about 13.75 hours after the comment would have had the most comedic impact.

When I began writing for my blogs, I was delighted to discover a latent funniness creeping into some of my posts. I didn't know where the humour came from, but celebrated its presence nonetheless.

Since joining Twitter, however, I have begun a grossly unscientific study of how words become funny. (And in the process have laid a lot of rotten eggs. I might humbly add.)

My first observation is that funny stuff can indeed bubble up spontaneously from the netherworld. I don't know exactly where ideas come from (although I have always been fond of Stephen King's explanation: His muse comes along and shits on his head), but I have learned that - sometimes - funny ideas are just there for the taking.

I have also observed that funny can't be forced. Many's the time I have been setting up what seems like a really awesome joke... only to choke at the punchline. Which never comes.

Other times, I can't seem to stop the flood: One funny idea will lead to another one, and then another one, and then suddenly EVERYTHING within my puny reach seems ripe for ridicule.

Which leads me to yet another observation (that I first made years ago while watching that episode of ST-TNG where Data tries to figure out what makes things funny): usually "funny" also involves "laughing at somebody's pain or hardship."

Which in turn has made me kind of ambivalent about humour, and even more determined to stay on the "Force" side of the laughter fence (as opposed to going over to the Dark Side). (Not to be confused with the DarkTime, Laurie.) (Laurie is my aforementioned best friend (who may very well be the only person ever to read this post), and she owns a canary who calls night-time "The DarkTime." Nevermind.)

I recently blocked a Twitter follower who was upset that I had made a joke out of one of her tweets. I'm not proud of what I did (although it was funny). I am determined to use my powers for good. Which in the end (I find) is leading me to what I like to call the "Lucille Ball" school of humour... i.e. Making Fun of Oneself First and Above All Else.

(I have a spectacularly huge amount of material to work with there. Thankfully. Although it does seem to entail injecting an astonishing number of menstrual references into my tweets. Sorry about that part.)

Another observation I've had is that sometimes (most of the time, perhaps) I can't think of any funny thoughts at all. And I've had to come to terms with the fact that I can't be making myself giggle every moment of the day. (Heaven knows I'll save a lot of money on Depends if I don't.)

My most recent observation is that humour is like a muscle: The more I use it, the stronger and more reliable it becomes. And what I love most about my new-found comedic sense is that it's making me see the world in a different way. I'm always looking for the snort-milk-out-my-nose underbelly of every situation, now. And suddenly, the world is much more interesting. Without the addition of recreational drugs, I might add.

Which reminds me of a true story: Last night I was on the phone talking to a friend with whom I've recently been reconnected, and at one point in the conversation he said, "Do you mind if I roll?"

And I, in my total obliviousness, though he said "row." As in row on his rowing machine, or something. Which would have been fine with me, although a little bizarre. I didn't realize he was that much of a work-out nut.

Just to be safe, I asked, "What???"

"Do you mind if I roll?"

"R-O-L-L?" I stubbornly spelled out, picturing him now physically rolling back and forth on his living room floor. Just for fun. Which would also have been bizarre, but hey - to each his own.

Then the penny dropped, and I realized he was talking about weed. Which he then explained he used to unwind at night and make his subsequent working hours the next day more bearable. To which I responded, "I think I use Twitter that way."

So if nothing else (and it's not chopped liver), my Twitter activities are preventing me from taking up a much more expensive habit. And avoiding the subsequent loss of brain cells.

Nevermind.

Follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/emelgy

tulips

Took these photos at my sister's place a few days ago, when I was there looking after her kids.

daffodils

A friend brought me a pot of daffodils a few days ago. They are awesome. I want to eat them, except they probably taste gross. And likely are poisonous.

melon in dish rack

Took this picture of a melon in my dish rack a few days ago. TMI, perhaps, but it makes me think of a breast.

twitter

So, I've jumped on the bandwagon. Not that I had any real purpose in mind when I did so - mostly I was just curious about what happened on Twitter, and wanted to check it out for myself.

I have contacts who are really into the social media marketing scene, and they'd been recommending Twitter for a year or two. I've got a bit of time on my hands right now, and was looking for some online entertainment... so...

What I'm finding is that Twitter is like one of those crazy midway rides that spin you around in every direction after you've foolishly eaten way too much cotton candy and elephant ears. Not that I'm knocking that feeling. Just sharing some words of wisdom, for what they're worth. (Note to Mom: You don't want to join Twitter.)

On a deeper level, I'm really enjoying it. Once you get past all the scammers trying to peddle their get-rich-quick schemes, there are some fascinating things to be found in 140-characters-or-less sound bites. A Twitter contact of mine recently posted the question: What do you want people to know about you? What kind of people would you most like to meet on Twitter?

My responses:

"I would like others to know that I'm pretending to be here for the networking while secretly enjoying the random tweets the most."

"I would most like to meet people who can make me laugh milk out my nose, or make my eyes widen in amazement."

There are certainly plenty of people who can do the latter. Like my friend Teresa Tarasewicz, owner of City Lights Bookshop in London, ON (aka @CityLightsLondn):

"Glorious burst of sunshine just made things better... no, don't go... wait... stay a bit longer, I have beer. (reaching hand towards fading beams)"

Or @TheBloggess, who writes:

"The Ultimate Argument For Legalizing Weed - Undeniable benefits that...OH MY GOD MY HANDS ARE HUGE! http://tinyurl.com/dfgo95 (via @cracked)"

"Also, I just want to point out that I have more followers than @cracked. It's awesome. And by "awesome" I mean "kind of a travesty"."

Ultimately what I'm enjoying about Twitter is the enforced restriction of having to communicate in 140-character chunks. It's not as easy at you might think. But it engages my mind in ways that I can't quite explain. Some recent tweets:

"My downstairs neighbours must hate me - I'm always dropping heavy stuff on my bedroom floor at midnight-ish." sent 11:30PM, Friday, March 13 2009

"Really??? The person in an apartment below me who showers ev wkday @ 515 showers @ 445 on Sat? That's some cruel sched." sent 4:46AM, Saturday, March 14 2009

"Wht's rlly cruel is waking up ur insomniac-tendencied nghbor @ 445 whn she went 2 bed @ midnght-ish. Aftr dropping smthg." sent 5:15AM, Saturday, March 14 2009

As you can see from the last tweet, running out of characters can lead to some desperate txt abbrevs. I have a friend who posts 100-word blog entries - as in, EXACTLY 100 words - no more, no less. I'm toying with the idea of 140-character blog posts, myself. Wait, isn't that what Twitter...? Nevermind.

Footnote: Follow me on Twitter @emelgy

Photo credit: ©2009 Michelle Lynne Goodfellow ~ Taken at some ungodly hour of the morning after I couldn't sleep because my neighbour was taking a shower at 4:45AM.