Grief is weird. The Portland scene continues to be weird.
I don't know how much I want to go into the memorial. There were some words spoken that were fairly effective, and if you're looking for a good set of them to begin trying to understand, these seemed to suit quite well. The most effective words may not be posted, and oddly, I'm okay with that. The world needs less things capable of making me sob in semi-public.
What can I speak to? Watching people wander like ghosts with thousand yard stares, hangovers that seemed to last a week. Escaping Friday to go plant a fig tree and some basil. Weeding like a sonnuvabitch on Sunday. Cocktails at Teardrop. Going through two flasks on the porch and in the front room of Planet Motherfucker. The emptiness of the house and the slow Sunday cleaning after Jetgirl and enth had taken their trains.
The heel of a bottle of Laphroaig passed around behind dann's car. Well dressed men and women wandering through an industrial space, flowers from sideyards stuck in the necks of gin bottles and a funereal dirge from the man himself that sounded like a heart was being cut out in display.
Brunch with mordel and karma debt and panamaus and Mrs Panamaus over beets and tempeh.
It's been such a strange weekend. The ripples continue to spread. There are still so many consequences of what happened, and ends that'll never be tied. And I still feel like a newcomer here. I feel like I was watching an explosion, and now I'm waiting for the implosion, or the birth of something new.
Monday feels too raw to be a new week. We'll see how it goes.