I suppose this one will be like a sort of obituary honouring my Uncle Leo who died today. But I don’t want to sound trite or cheap or a waste (of paint!), so I’m just going to write it straight-out how I know it. Um, grit your teeth through this one and feign a smile, or else don’t. Whatever.
Basically, I remember my Uncle Leo as a somewhat lean, pale guy with long hair and an eyepatch. He had diabetes. He smoked. I remember him in a lot of plaid, and jeans, and those boots–like Timberland-esque, the kind construction workers and gangstas wear…I associate all that with him. Sort of grunge-esque. He painted portraits, one of two artists in the family, but more personal ones. He liked the Grateful Dead, apparently–his room door always had various rock posters on it. It was like a 60s teenager had never moved out, sort of. My cousin Brian (who’s ten) loved him to death; Leo was essentially his second father. He was somehow pretty good with kids. Yes, he was in his late forties living in my grandparents’ basement–the one child out of ten who never moved on, and not even the youngest. But he added some flavour to the home. Mind, he wasn’t as spry as he probably was when he first decided to move out, and a little quieter, but we could always rely on Leo to be home. He sometimes alleviated the grievances of parents + son + daughter-in-law + granddaughters monotony. It was then parents + son who lives in the basement + son with three daughters and a wife + daughter-in-law + three granddaughters.
And he died in an armchair. That’s…ironic, sort of. If I knew the end was coming, I would do something crazy, just so people could talk about it. He may or may not have died a peaceful death, but he died in the armchair, and when they found him, he was cold. I’m sort of paranoid about zombies and ghosts and spirits visiting me; even going into the garden where we buried Pepper freaks me out. I can’t step on gravesites. And the part in Kill Bill (Volume 2, right?) where Uma/The Bride is buried doesn’t help, either. So I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sit in a chair at my grandparents’ house again for the rest of my life.
Karma is just kicking me lately; Jesus/Allah/Buddha knows I love October, and He is smiting me to see how long I can last.
Just for clarification, this sums up how I feel…
[23:02] indiechouette: my uncle died today
[23:02] indiechouette: the one who lived in my grandparents’ basement
[23:04] TheMusiqueBandit: i did not know of that
[23:04] TheMusiqueBandit: what happened
[23:04] indiechouette: i don’t know!
[23:05] indiechouette: diabetes?
[23:05] TheMusiqueBandit: he just died?
[23:05] TheMusiqueBandit: suicide?
[23:05] indiechouette: he died in an armchair
[23:05] indiechouette: no
[23:05] indiechouette: he liked sticking around, getting in the way
[23:05] indiechouette: kidding, sort of
[23:05] TheMusiqueBandit: wow your grandparents must’ve been really upset
[23:05] TheMusiqueBandit: like their child dying
[23:05] indiechouette: yes; my grandmother was crying. i was just like, “oh, uncle leo died? what’s new?”
[23:05] indiechouette: i man
[23:06] indiechouette: mean*
[23:06] indiechouette: not exactly; it was unexpected, but he didn’t take great care of himself
[23:06] indiechouette: so it wasn’t THAT unexpected
[23:06] indiechouette: actually, you could consider it a form of suicide
[23:06] indiechouette: letting yourself go like that
[23:07] indiechouette: ’cause he had diabetes and everything
[23:07] indiechouette: but it wasn’t really suicide
[23:07] TheMusiqueBandit: yeah
[23:07] TheMusiqueBandit: indirect suicide
[23:07] indiechouette: yes
Probably the worst thing about everything is considering how my grandmother, Grandann, must feel, seeing one of her children–the one who’s around the most–dead, dying before her. I’ve always had this respect for her, despite the fact that there’s a “Connors” attitude about things that Rachael and I try to avoid…she’s accomodating, being a mother of ten (technically eleven) and a grandmother of a fucking lot. A step g-ma, too. Although, really, if you weren’t born as a Connors, you don’t understand or appreciate the offbeat hospitality. Sort of like if you’re not a McDonald by blood, then you won’t get the McDonald family fortune, which, by the way, we’re not the McDonald’s McDonalds, so don’t get your hopes up.
On a far lighter note, I’m going to include an LJ-like vague reminisce on the past few days/weeks/months/years. Mat Cloak reminded us that we shouldn’t let anyone else determine the quality of our band experience, which is something that, as simple as it sounds, I hadn’t really thought about. Band is supposed to be fun; even if you’ve got an instructor on crack, you guys should have a good time devising antics to get rid of him or her, or just pull through it and be stronger/tighter in the end. No, “Winter Ensemble” 2006-2007 won’t we an Herce ensemble. It can’t be. That would be fucking sweet. Thankfully, he left us for Edison, who, really, we tight. Edison is our big brother. Anyways, no, it’s not going to be that, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun. It’s guaranteed to be tense and rigorous and probably dreadful with more hours, but the experiences are priceless. I sound lame. I should shut up. I’m not convincing anyone. No, we won’t be able to jumprope with equipment cords (damn). It should be different, though; we’re an isolated section, and MAYBE I’LL TALK TO THAT EDISON GUY who I didn’t tell anyone about because I thought I was imagining things, maybe. It’s fun to be away from the rest of the band. We can chill and talk about things that nobody else would understand unless they’ve played on drumline or in pit. It’s special.
Another thing, Max almost cried today while recounting his escapades with Herce, and how “Chlorie said I made line according to all the judges except Herce! Damn him, man. Damn him. I hate him.” Note how, well. NO. I’ll leave it at that.
Awkwardly enough, I believe that I set high goals for myself at all times, even in the relationship area–friendship or otherwise. I’ve been setting goals too high for myself. I’ve always felt I should stoop down, but really, now I’m realizing it, how difficult it is to talk to some people alone/not alone, but less awkwardly, where less people are listening to what I’m saying. This is not a pity thing, just matter-of-fact (like in the books how they always wrote, “‘I am madly in love with Ronald Weasley,’ Hermione said matter-of-factly.” ) that I honestly doubt that through high school I will ever have a boyfriend. Or rather, never again, maybe. I need to see the world, but I’m just awkwardly pained, seeing love/couples left and right taking for granted at least one thing, and that would be their ability to smoothy flow into a relationship. I’m the piece of metal dragging behind, slowing things down. I’m resistant when I see something going in that direction. I won’t. But I’ve let it before. I just don’t feel like wasting time for another name or a number to spout off. And as I read somewhere, once you’re in the relationship, you’re both tense, wondering who’s gonna break up with who first. It’s a competition. Last thing, I swear, that is awkward: Because I realize my potential is lowered (MATTER OF FACT), I’ve had crushes on people I know I shouldn’t like, but I do. And they’re not even the cutest; I just see personality and potential in them. The funniest thing about this? They make it at least semi-obvious that they don’t like me JUST because of my grade. This is the first place ever where guys won’t go out with older girls. That’s actually not an observation on my part; it’s just a general statement about guys in the area.
“MAN, SHE’S 2 DAYS/MONTHS/YEARS OLDER THAN YOU?! SHE ASKED YOU OUT?! FUCK, MAN, SHE’S A FUCKING WITCH. WE NEED TO TRY HER AND THEN DO THE DROWNING TEST. And if she drowns…then you can sleep happy at night knowing she wasn’t that weird after all. Mkay?!”
Close enough. Don’t use so much Axe. Go for a new scent. FRUITY. I’m actually not being sarcastic.
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