Miss Anthropic Principle
Ten years ago today…
grandpa died. I remember little of that day. I had that vague foreboding feeling, that feeling I didn’t have a name for. I was happy, it was my golden birthday the next day and I was having a nice weekend with my parents, but there was something wrong. My English grandfather had died four months before and I guess I thought life was getting back to normal so to speak. I remember going to my favourite antiquarian bookshop, now closed. I remember swinging around a lamp post because I had watched Singin’ in the Rain that morning. But in the evening when we were watching television, the phone rang. It was the hospital. There had been so many false alarms, mostly for my grandmother, over the decades, but this was different. We drove to the hospital. I can’t remember the drive at all. All I remember is Mom going in and then coming out, shaking her head. I went in myself. I wanted to see him. I’ve never been afraid of dead bodies like some of my family members. I burst into tears. Not loud or embarrassing. I just cried. He was lying there, 86 years old and still lithe and muscular. Strong as an ox until the end. His heart was weakened by congestive heart failure and an accidental morphine overdose in the hospital several months previously. He could have lasted longer. He looked a little yellow but he almost looked like he was sleeping. Life had only just left him a hour or so before. He was luke warm to the touch, but I could feel that his core was still very warm, life ebbing away. I kissed him on the cheek. I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I don’t remember how or when I moved away. After that, things are a little blank. White like empty pages in a notebook, black like the night sky. Full and hollow. Things have never been the same since. Not with the family. Not with me. I’ve felt closer to death ever since. I painted a tiny black heart on my left thumb. Every time it grew off, chipped off, faded away, I have repainted it. For ten years. Maybe I should let go. But I do it for him. This morning I woke up thinking about him. One memory floods my mind. When I was 11 or 12, he dragged out his old cardboard Xerox box of his WWII U.S. Air Force things. He showed me this tiny compass, no bigger than his thumbnail. I was enchanted. 
"I carried this with me during the war every single day." I said ‘really?’ or ‘wow.’ I stared at the tiny thing, watching its little needle wobble to a halt. There was silence.
"It’s yours." I was so excited. 
"Really?" I said softly looking up at him. 
I held it in my hand this morning. Maybe he wasn’t always the nicest person, shaped by pain and dissatisfaction, but he was a good man. He was strong. He had emotion. He had integrity. He loved me. And I love him.

Ten years ago today…

grandpa died. I remember little of that day. I had that vague foreboding feeling, that feeling I didn’t have a name for. I was happy, it was my golden birthday the next day and I was having a nice weekend with my parents, but there was something wrong. My English grandfather had died four months before and I guess I thought life was getting back to normal so to speak. I remember going to my favourite antiquarian bookshop, now closed. I remember swinging around a lamp post because I had watched Singin’ in the Rain that morning. But in the evening when we were watching television, the phone rang. It was the hospital. There had been so many false alarms, mostly for my grandmother, over the decades, but this was different. We drove to the hospital. I can’t remember the drive at all. All I remember is Mom going in and then coming out, shaking her head. I went in myself. I wanted to see him. I’ve never been afraid of dead bodies like some of my family members. I burst into tears. Not loud or embarrassing. I just cried. He was lying there, 86 years old and still lithe and muscular. Strong as an ox until the end. His heart was weakened by congestive heart failure and an accidental morphine overdose in the hospital several months previously. He could have lasted longer. He looked a little yellow but he almost looked like he was sleeping. Life had only just left him a hour or so before. He was luke warm to the touch, but I could feel that his core was still very warm, life ebbing away. I kissed him on the cheek. I whispered in his ear that I loved him. I don’t remember how or when I moved away. After that, things are a little blank. White like empty pages in a notebook, black like the night sky. Full and hollow. Things have never been the same since. Not with the family. Not with me. I’ve felt closer to death ever since. I painted a tiny black heart on my left thumb. Every time it grew off, chipped off, faded away, I have repainted it. For ten years. Maybe I should let go. But I do it for him. This morning I woke up thinking about him. One memory floods my mind. When I was 11 or 12, he dragged out his old cardboard Xerox box of his WWII U.S. Air Force things. He showed me this tiny compass, no bigger than his thumbnail. I was enchanted. 

"I carried this with me during the war every single day." I said ‘really?’ or ‘wow.’ I stared at the tiny thing, watching its little needle wobble to a halt. There was silence.

"It’s yours." I was so excited. 

"Really?" I said softly looking up at him. 

I held it in my hand this morning. Maybe he wasn’t always the nicest person, shaped by pain and dissatisfaction, but he was a good man. He was strong. He had emotion. He had integrity. He loved me. And I love him.

grinderman2:

me in high school: omg cant wait for college
me in college: omg cant wait for the 10 years between retirement and the cold embrace of the grave

I’m uncomfortable with how much I laughed at this.

All cities are geological and three steps cannot be taken without encountering ghosts
Ivan Chtcheglov, P. xii, City - P.D. Smith (via paulswagerman)
come-and-chill:

Blooming while all else has died

come-and-chill:

Blooming while all else has died


Posy ring with pictogram inscription, ‘Two hands, one heart, Till death us part.’ Made in England in the 17th century (source).

We’re nice and morbid, aren’t we?

Posy ring with pictogram inscription, ‘Two hands, one heart, Till death us part.’ Made in England in the 17th century (source).

We’re nice and morbid, aren’t we?

masuoka:

Endeavour 2x02, “Nocturne” (2014)

Whenever I see anyone’s name on Yahoo trending, I worry that they’ve died.

Harold Ramis’ death has hit me in a way I didn’t think it would.
And make death proud to take us.
Cleopatra, Anthony and Cleopatra - William Shakespeare (via aphrosidiac)
Death is but a door. Time is but a window. I’ll be back.

Just before Vigo the Carpathian’s head died, he uttered this prophetic warning.

- Ghostbusters II

(via the-canoodler)

I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words which found no true echo in my heart.
Mary Shelley (on Frankenstein)
are-are-kay:

Félicien Rops

are-are-kay:

Félicien Rops

We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.
Charles Bukowski (via thymoss)
31st December 1913: A man holds a horse wearing funeral plumes (a dying custom). (Photo by Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)

31st December 1913: A man holds a horse wearing funeral plumes (a dying custom). (Photo by Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)

lordofvermin:


Sunset on the Styx



I should know this artist…

lordofvermin:

Sunset on the Styx

I should know this artist…