I.
I booked my ticket this week to fly to the same state that I have been to on only three occasions. Once to meet a family of a loved one. Once to go to the funeral of an incredibly sad murder (not all murders are sad, I suppose). And now, this third time, to attend the funeral of a person who has died by suicide whose body has been delivered there.
Death can be a strange one.
It will always be a particularly gutting one.
Murder and suicide are different.
It makes sense that their survivors are, at times, put together for support.
These deaths are something different. The scars these deaths deliver are different. Lonely and singular in how each person experiences the ramifications, without a doubt, but there is something more hollow that these deaths unlock.
II.
I am currently in a field with grass as far as the eye can see. The sun is out. I have just finished reading a graphic novel called Your Black Friend by Ben Passmore (recommended), and have just made plans to lay and read in the sun in the park on a Friday evening with one of my favorite people in the world. Pizza and a blanket included.
The highlights of this week include being tangled up in bed with my favorite taking turns reading paragraphs to each other in order to learn more about the history of the art of Albert von Keller- laughing and doing deep dives into the odd corners of the occult we have been overlooking.
(pause)
Life is fragile, glorious, and odd.
Hold onto the people you love and who somehow- simultaneously- lift you up and anchor you down.
Those other weights?
Let them go, my love.
Let them go.
Be well; be loved,
k.
(image: painting by Albert von Keller Gisela von Wehner with Daughter Ilka, 1906.)
