Four day weekend

It's a banking holiday in the UK. And I've taken the opportunity to add a Friday to that, so I'm looking down the right end of a four day weekend.

Today's also the day that my neighbour is moving. It's a little disturbing, since there's an ambulance right next to the moving van and the movers are standing around on the street, talking about the things 19-25 year old lads are talking about, and fiddle with their mobile phones. Let's hope she's okay.

I'm in a peculiar mood today - we visited the parents of our friend who died in April, just to check in on them, see how they are doing. They are over here from Spain, where they live most of the year. There's this notable absence - sitting in Chris's living room, talking to his parents. Sometimes, we're the sum of our losses.

Life's too short, really. It takes such a long time to become who we are, to do the things we were meant to do, that anything shorter than a hundred years isn't nearly enough and an insult to all the hard work we had to put in up to that point.

Being parentless, or should I say motherless, because my father only really contributed some pretty solid DNA, is likely different to be mourning a child. My mother had years that were outside my experience, and in some ways we were completely different. We had our fights like probably only two Taureans can fight.

High drama, snarls, seething accusations. Yet, in a strange way, I was always prepared to grow up very fast. I remember some astonishing insights as a small child, a confidence, clarity and strength that very often kept me in good stead. I grew up very fast as if part of me knew I wouldn't have many people to depend on in my life. Very likely I owe that to my mother, who was - working as she was, and falling desperately in love with one asshole after the other - largely absent, but never left any doubt that she loved me. I guess, apart from the gift of life, that's really the main thing I received. Self-sufficiency because there were precious few resources to back me up, and the feeling that I was loved unconditionally.

Even fourteen years later, there's this "wish she could see that", and I'll likely never lose that feeling. We do carry our dead around, sometimes as a burden, sometimes as a privilege.

Back from the funeral

Just returned from the funeral of my friend Chris and now emotionally somewhat exhausted. The reality really hit when they played "Forever Autumn" from the War of the Worlds soundtrack. Always been one of my favourite songs on there, but now it'll be forever tied to Chris and the view of the coffin ready to go into the crematorium. The fact that it's behind the curtains doesn't help much.

My own mortality is certainly back at the forefront of my mind, too. Every time I face death - and I've faced too much of it, too early - I completely re-evaluate my life. There are many "open issues" that I'd have to tackle before I go. The ones that are open I'm ok to tackle in the next life. It'll be OK to see some people around next time and deal with them again. If that's how the universe works. I strangely think it does.

The Christian sermon and service is so bleak when you don't actually believe in God or the Resurrection or God's "mercy". I can see through a pagan Roman's eyes and be flabbergasted at what those Christians believe. I much preferred the "social part", where people would exchange memories, rather than implore the Flying Spaghetti Monster to "accept our brother Chris" and "dry our tears." While my heart kept saying "no, that's not how it works. That's not the truth." Moving my lips and going through the motions without feeling it is getting impossible.

Chris was a good guy, bright as a spark, fun, generous, kind. He needs no mercy from anyone, Flying Spaghetti Monsters or anybody else, fictional or real. His goodness, kindness and caring will stand him in good stead, whereever he's now. Maybe he'll move on, maybe he's coming back, and even if our soul/mind/character is just a function of the material brain - and as I said, I don't actually believe that, even though I'm OK with it, it's just that I've had experiences that point to a different model - even then his memory lives with us. And it really only matters for as long as we are around, anyway.

I'll set up provisions for my own death, my creative will, provisions covering the rights to my stories and everything else. In many ways, the duty now is to live in a way that people will remember me for the good rather than the bad, to make a difference in people's lives, and go out with a bow, a smile, and having given everything I have to give.

Having to make sense of it

At the moment, I'm just stunned and don't find the hole that leads into the story. The rabbit hole is still there, but it's very small. I struggle finding more than maybe 200 or 300 words.

One of my friends died. I heard the news yesterday. He died last Saturday, and today we're off to meet the parents.

I have no idea what happened, only that he's gone. My partner is taking it pretty hard - they were much closer, regular gaming buddies, while I connected with Chris mostly over us both being war and thriller geeks and early technological adopters. He'd get the iPod/iPhone first, then I'd follow once my budget allowed.

I'm mostly looking after my partner. I've only seen him cry maybe three times in the last seven years, and he's stunned worse than me, filling the time with mindless games and otherwise not an awful lot. The wound must heal by itself, we just have to endure that, that helpless loss, the emptiness. 39 is too young to die, by far.

Rest in peace, Chris.