Women will be the death of me.

Tonight, I savour my last evening of a week away from work. Well not quite away; I live in a flat above one of our branches but since Sunday last, I've not concerned myself with anything that could pay the rent or trouble me in a professional sense. Instead, I've indulged my base and venereal impulses, with wine and women and other such trifles that cost more than my monthly budget would strictly allow. Bear with me, please.

This week, I reconciled with my troubled girlfriend and then promptly dumped her again on the friday. We've had many ups and downs in our time together. In the end it was more downs than ups, often originating from the neccesity of me having to leave her whilst 'on call'. Of course, I could argue that her sense of abandonment stems from the acrimonious loss of her father at an early age, but having to leave our shared bed at all hours over a considerable period and neccesarily devoting so much of my time to my work has some impact. I've seen all this before amongst colleagues and In retropsect, I've taken her and her feelings for granted.

Now I've only known D, my newest ladyfriend and for whom I've devoted much attention for a short period, but thus far It's been quite an intense liason. As a funeral director, It can sometimes be difficult explaining your role to prospective new ladyfriends. There are those that are completely freaked out and those that take an unhealthy interest, or at least in my experience. D however has maintained a cool nonchalance and so for that reason I was accomodating when she asked me for a tour of the premises in which I live. I showed her our two chapels, the damp Dickensian cellar piled with decaying funereal equipment and the rump of what once was a 1930's mortuary. I climbed up an 8ft cupboard in nothing but a dressing gown to extricate mouldy and expired morocco spined ledgers dating back to the 1840's and she breathed this all in, spores and all. Of course, I take all this for granted, but she was intensely turned on, as was evidenced later that evening.

On Thursday I attended a dinner prepared by my cousin, she who has recently lost her father; my uncle. Before and after a lovely curry, the Semillon chardonnay flowed as if on broken tap. But, In Vino veritas, and the booze freed her and her husband to vent their frustrations at the contents of Uncle Jims will. My cousins are no longer on speaking terms with each other, as Is often the case with contentious wills. I've seen this all before and of course take it for granted, but she was apoplectic.

Now, at the end of my week's sojourn at home and amongst the various women whom demand so much of me, I'm exhausted, I'm poor, I'm emotionally drained and I'm ever so slightly worried I might have impregnated somebody whom I'm not willing to commit to. I've had carnal relations with three women (not including my cousin of course) and despite the fact that I've managed to reflect on the various emotions of the various women In my life, I can't honestly say I've learned anything substantial about how a womans mind works, or why what I do as a job is of any interest. But then, I suppose I just take it all for granted.

scheduling it all.

My life has a very tight schedule right now. Moving from my home that had all of my suits and shirts and socks and shoes neatly tucked away in my nice and tidy closet has not served me well. My roles are now fractionalized into little parts in much the same way. Where my clothes used to be all in the same place and seamlessly moved from one day to the next I now find my roles jumbled in the same way. Time and schedules are my life. I don't like it very much but this is what I have chosen and I shall persevere.

When I was living in ________ I worked for a big university. My job was to receive, embalm, catalog, maintain and store the dead human remains of those who had donated their bodies to science. My other duty was to make these bodies ready and available for thousands of students to dissect and study. It went sort of like this:

Being on call those days was simply wearing a pager and possessing a huge notebook filled with names. These names belonged to those who had successfully signed up with the anatomy bequest program. If one of these people died, we would be contacted by a family member (or their proxy) and let us know that this person was ready to be taken into the program. We would then make sure that they were in the book and if they still qualified. Just because you were on the list did not mean that you were still qualified...height and weight were a factor here. If some one had become gigantic in the last few years on the earth they could be rejected. If they had shriveled into a dusty husk, they could also be denied. If they were still at the optimum weight/height/meat ratio a funeral home (who we had contracted with) would remove them from their place of death. These undertakers would bring them to us and we would begin the process of preservation.

The process for anatomically embalming a body versus cosmetically or traditionally embalming a body is absolutely night and day. We used a preservative fluid that I liked to refer to as jet fuel. It was mostly phenol (or carbolic acid) with some isopropyl alcohol and H2O as carriers. It was awesome stuff, just being in the same room with it flowing scented you quite permanently. Showers helped but really only time allowed the smell to ware off. It was always fun to go from the lab to class and watch people move away to desks farther from what was emanating from my person. I got to a point that I would not even change back into street clothes and attend all of my classes in scrubs.

What happened after embalming was really just the beginning. The bodies were beginning the process of becoming cadavers. This is apparently the term used when dead human remains are used for scientific study. Studied they were. After stewing for a while (typically a month or so) in a new state of bloated unrecognizableness the bodies were moved into new homes, the dissection table. This would be their domicile for a good two years depending on the condition of the tissues.

The cadavers would always begin with students on the path to become doctors. These were definitely the most childish and demanding of all of the students because they were training to be doctors and that particular style of entitlement and snobbery starts early. Beyond that the bodies would move down the chain of command eventually landing with elementary anatomy students who occasionally passed out from the site of something so foreign.

The care of these cadavers was quite an undertaking and would not have been possible without much planning and scheduling. Our lab lived and died by a giant wall calendar and a set of daily responsibilities. Cleaning the rooms, hydrating the bodies, cleaning the tables, cremating the spent ones and doing the laundry were all duties that we all undertook as a team. It was a good team. One of members of that team died a few years ago in a very tragic car accident. Writing this now and thinking of her and the crazy times we had together makes me cry. I will be drinking a Heineken for Erica Pagel tonight. She was a good friend. I miss her presence on this earth.

At this point in my life I was becoming incredibly disenfranchised by the mortuary program that I was involved in. I became much more involved in the study of religion, film, art, pinball and beer. By taking the live grieving human out of the scenario and replacing the dead loved ones name with a serial number, I became quite cold and disheartened. It was not long before I dropped out of school and went to work full time at the lab. This was not probably the best idea I had ever had. Changing this plan was necessary but not without friction. On one hand I had to get out of my schedule to maintain sanity but on the other hand it compromised my ability to move forward in what I had thought was my destiny. Sometimes destiny takes detours.

There really is nothing quite like sorting through hundreds of dissection tables full of butts, thighs and back-fat to turn you off to the majesty of the corpse. Human anatomy is really quite beautiful as long as you don't cut it up into big slabs of oily mottled chunks and spend 16 hours placing it into 27 cremation containers for a 30 mile trip to the retort in a rented moving van. Those sorts of days tend to wear on ones soul. Sometimes, however, you do what you gotta do.

Schedules. My new schedule goes a little like this: I work for ten days in a row and then I get 4 days off. Of those 10 I am on call for 6. I have my children every other week from Friday to Friday and 4 of those days are my days off. I live with my parents in the house that I grew up in. I am completely broke. Unfettered free time to myself has completely disappeared. When I am not responsible for my kids I am responsible to the dead and their families. Trying to live in this town while you are getting separated from someone that you have been with for 14 years is the best possible scenario you could have for an award winning soap-opera. You can't turn around without having to explain to someone why "it is OK and everything is going fine and the kids are adjusting well".

I made this mess. This is all my fault. The "new" aspects to this schedule are born from very huge and life changing decisions.

Most of the time people do not get to choose when these mind altering, direction destroying blows come, these things are more often than not, completely out of our control. Whether someone's loved one dies unexpectedly or disease slowly ravages them over time, the inevitable change to "the schedule" is not a choice, it is simply a reality.

I know that my decision to change my life has directly impacted other people's lives as well. Many of those impacts have been painful and direct. Parts of me are sorry that those things had to happen. Parts of me know that those changes to those lives would have happened in time anyway, with or without my participation. To me, right now, it has been very important to look inwardly and address what I can do to not make some of the mistakes I may or may not have made in the past. My life schedule is a direct representation of choices that I have made over the years of my life.

The schedule has to change. We can't actually believe that these processes and paths that we have chosen are the best way forever can we? Many times things change because there was something seriously wrong with the process. Lives do not move forward when cancer goes unchecked. If the system is compromised and the system fails to be corrected, the system will cease to operate. Relationships are much like bodies, if they are not healthy, they will die. Schedules are important if they serve to keep the plan on the right track. If the schedule is serving to maintain failure, the schedule is poison.

I recently spoke to my old boss at the anatomy bequest program in ____________. We spoke of old times and what has changed. As far as I could tell, not much had. They were now computerized and most of the calendar was synced to PDA's that students used. For the most part that lab ran exactly like it did when I worked there 15 or so years ago. The only change to the schedule in that system is that I was not a part of it. I don't think the program flinched at all.

Whew.

When Death Comes Home.

My Uncle died a few weeks ago. He was a funny old Paddy with his melodious patter and glinting eye. In accordance with Irish tradition, his send off was an alcohol fuelled affair. My considerably sized family came from far and wide; my own father and sister having travelled from Australia especially to see him before he went to that big betting shop in the sky. Interestingly, no blood was spilt at the wake. Certain members of my family have what the Americans colloquially call 'Issues'.

The funeral itself gave me an opportunity to re-experience the occasion from the mourners point of view; an experience thankfully rare but sorely lacking amongst many of us in production line, corporate funeral care. My company didn't conduct the funeral, thank god. I must say however, the funeral was brilliant, but for all the wrong reasons. London has had a lovely spell of weather lately but on the day, It pissed down. Of course the Irish philosopy demanded that; ''Happy is the corpse that the rain falls upon'', but I doubt Uncle Jim was overly concerned. He was dead after all.

The service was a proper Catholic affair; all thuribles and aspergillums. My cousins lined up for communion and forgot what they were supposed to say after receiving the sacrament. Amen would have done. An opera singer from the west end production of 'The phantom of the opera' was hired to sing 'Ave Maria'. It was awesome and clumsy yet comforting.

Outside, our three stout lim drivers had parked their 3 stout Daimler limousines in the path of egress of an apoplectic minicab driver. He revved his VW Sharan and abused a family friend in some sort of Urdu/English hybrid dialect. To his credit, our lim driver stormed over, whipped his door open, told him to 'Have some fucking respect' and threw the minicab drivers keys into a bush. The cabbie stormed around our limousine, taking photo's with his mobile and waving his fist. Later, I wondered what I would have done in the same situation. I probably would have smacked him in the head. Driving in a professional capacity in a place like London wears your patience down. Back in rural Australia, such an outburst from a motorist towards a funeral cortege would be unthinkable. I can imagine such a situation in a place like Idaho would be equally unfamiliar. In London however, you drive defensively and you give as good as you get. It's a bloody jungle out there.

Things weren't to get better for our poor beseiged driver. The cremation ceremony went beautifully, but on the return trip to the pub a Mercedes with French number plates clipped the tail of our car in the pouring rain. Having exchanged details, he jumped back into the drivers seat, soaking wet and apologising profusely. At this point, I felt obliged to ask him to shut up, and to tell him that I was a lim driver myself and that he'd done a sterling job. I hope he felt better.

From then on it was a matter of free alcohol and pithy speeches from teary old, booze-soaked Irishmen. As my fathers eldest son, I was entrusted with delivering a speech from my teary old, booze-soaked and absent father. It was all very agreeable and a lovely tribute to a much loved man.

Sometimes when we conduct a funeral, we take our clients grief for granted. It can be easy to forget that the coffin you're bearing contains the remains of somebodys loved mother, brother or perhaps a lovely old Irish uncle. What's nice though, is that despite the often inevitable indifference and feigned sympathy one might feel towards a families mourning, we can still act with a dignity and respect that the occasion demands, even If that means you need to tell an irate minicab driver to have some fucking respect.

sick of videos? too bad for you I guess.

Sorry that is not very nice is it...oh well. I ran across this lovely video today and was reminded again of how much I dearly love the Melvins. One of my favorite shows was when they opened up for Nirvana in a college basketball stadium in my hometown of ___________. They tore the roof off the place. Nirvana then played and they proceeded to destroy the floor, foundation and 3 square blocks around the arena. It was beautiful.

I guess I write this because sometimes when the walls around you are crumbling down upon your naked soul it can still be OK. We need death and disintegration to allow us to build again from scratch. I know that when I see families wrecked and ravaged from loss and sorrow that every once and awhile they come through the other side as much better people. Pain gives us strength if we can get though it. I think.

My life as an undertaker has changed more in the last month than in the last 15 years I have been practicing the trade. I have become more engaged more present and completely focused on what is needed and what is not.

Stay tuned. Just a preamble.

...musical interlude...

This either has nothing to do with being a mortician or everything to do with being a mortician. I am not sure.

i can't believe this video stayed up. this is me writing from 2022.

life, love, sex and death and never in that order

THIS PHOTO IS 13 YEARS NEWER THAN THIS POST

Let's just say this, I am in a bit of a "state" right now.

state

n.

1. A condition or mode of being, as with regard to circumstances: a state of confusion.

Big time. Ok. got it?

For those of you that know me, forget it, throw that away, you do not. Not even close. I am A. Mortician, that is all you know. That being said, let me attempt at blathering on for awhile.

I dodged a particularly tragic pair of deaths this week. Conflicting arrangement times prevented me from meeting with the family of a nightmarish tragedy. Counting myself lucky, I moved on into my week attacking various duties with great abandonment and beautiful hope for the future. Then, a few days ago, I was greeted with my comeuppance. A distraught and destroyed woman on the other end of a telephone telling me that she needed my help. Help with the kind of thing I know a bit about. This is, as they say, not my first rodeo. I listened, I cared, I used "the voice" as best I could. Today, I will meet with members of a family whose lives were changed so quickly and inexplicably that they surely will never recover, never forget and never be ok again. No matter what. My presence in their lives has begun and to my very bones I wish it had not. There are plenty of details here that I will not fill you in on. Details simply outline what is seen at the bottom line. Like an itemized price-list.

My life has changed a lot recently and to be perfectly honest I was doing pretty well with all of it. Given the circumstances, things seemed to be going on as best they could and the parts seemed to be fitting in together as well as to be expected. When that changed this week, I knew I was screwed. Truly and deeply.

One thing that an undertaker needs to do, in my humble and jaded opinion, is to get as close to a family as they possibly can. To attempt to understand what they might need, have questions about or to simply nod and say "I can not imagine". Being there for someone in that time when their loved one has been stripped from their lives is not about comfort to me, it is about presence. That presence hopefully exists out of a sense of some small amount of understanding. While this understanding can come from personal experiences of the mortician, I need it to come from the individual experience that I am feeling with that family standing right in front of me. Standing there crying, broken, destroyed. Sitting across the table in the arrangement room laughing, smiling, and full of hope and freedom from the thought of no more pain for them. In these rooms, at these houses, along the sides of these roads one must be present. One must be aware of what is needed at the time when it is needed.

So over the past week or so this blog has seen a bit of action. A new contributor, new people reading and commenting, new ideas and opinions. I appreciate all of this and wish to turn inward from all of it for a moment. A common thread has emerged that I think needs to be addressed. For me, right now, I could care less about "the industry". Caskets can go on being caskets no matter their type, style, species or gauge. Burial plots with beautiful views can do just that. They have no meaning for me nor do they have any bearing on what is important. All aspects of these items are secondary to the matters at hand. Matters at hand are how we feel and how that affects our ability to move to the next moment.

My eureka moment came to me when I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Not a goddamned clue. Last night, after the children had been tucked in and hugged and kissed and assured, I sat down to write this post. All I had was tears. I have them now too but they live behind my face, hiding from those who do not understand or have enough on their plate right now. "What the fuck am I doing" I ask myself. What. The. Fuck. I sit here and ask and wait for a family that will arrive and ask me "what do we do now?". I have no idea. none.

All these people, and not just the ones on their way to the funeral home now, ALL of these people, ALL OF US want one thing. We don't want to lose what we love. When we do, we know it, and it hurts. Bad. Schedule 1 Class A triple-double bad.

Time has passed since I began this post and now I have met with the family that I was speaking of before. My pity for them and what they are going through is legendary. They got the raw mortician, the one that does not pull any punches and tells it exactly like it is. They were not ready yet to make all of the arrangements that needed to be made. Neither was I. Questions were asked and answered to the best of my abilities, ideas were laid on the table to be pondered, and a family left this place with more information than they came in with. Their loved ones are still dead and they will never see them again in any way that they desire to. All they want is to have them back. All any of us want is to see them again, to touch them, to speak to them the truths of love. If even for a second. Anything to stop this pain now. Even for a second.

So we wander. We wander around in life taking it all in and hope for the best. We either take it for granted or we don't. Sometimes we get hung up on the little things. Sometimes we don't. I am in the bubble right now. I am on the inside looking out. Leaves are greener, the sky much bluer. Music is not for the background, it is a soundtrack that must be paid attention to. Nothing, is going unnoticed.

So I wonder. I wonder why it is that I can pay so much goddamn attention to all of this bloody beautiful glory crashing all around me that I still have no idea what I am doing. My easy answer is that I never knew to begin with. The hard answer is that for the first time in my life I actually do. Somewhere in between those two answers might be the truth. Maybe not.

Once again I write the same damn thing that I have always written on this stupid blog. I am going to try and end this post with something different. Bare with me.

The funeral industry exists. It is certainly not perfect. None of that matters to me. My job is to help people despite what people do. Rising to that occasion seems very important right now.

People will die. Life will change. Love hurts. I am here. I am now going to go have a cigarette by the dumpster in the alley of the funeral home and think about sex.

I leave you with a poem by Ted Hughes. He is dead. I am using this poem with absolutely no permission whatsoever.

October Salmon

Now worn out with her tirelessness, her insatiable quest,

Hangs in the flow, a frayed scarf-

An autumnal pod of his flower,

The mere hull of his prime, shrunk at shoulder and flank,

In the October light

He hangs there, patched with leper-cloths

All this, too, is stitched into torn richness,

The epic poise

That holds him so steadfastly in his wounds, so loyal to his doom,

so patient

In the machinery of heaven.

I am DeadCentre.

I really wasn't sure what to write here. I'd been asked by this blogs host to make a contribution but I'd had no Xanadu moment; my muse had foraken me. I'd considered at first an introduction of sorts, a precis of my life in the funeral industry since the age of fourteen and subsequent descent into the production line world of corporate funeral care. It's not interesting though, not to me anyway.

Tonight I had my Xanadu moment. Olivia Newton-John rollerskated down the stairs and into the toilets of the Old Cheshire Cheese pub on Fleet Street in London. In the form a a bit of graffiti penned onto the wall beside the cistern above the urinal she'd written; 'Lifes great irony; though the measure of our life goes forward, our understanding of it works in reverse', or words to that effect. I remembered what I wanted to do on this blog. I wanted to cause a fuss, be difficult and disagree with A. Mortician, and that's exactly what I intend to do. It's much more interesting because after so many years caring, I've realised that the caring makes little difference, provided you are seen to care.

My days of idealism are over. What we as funeral directors provide is merely a basic service that any halfwit with a basic education and with provision of a simple formula could facilitate. This is as much the case now as has been since neanderthal man decided to bury his dead rather than abandon them to the elements. They say that prostitution is the worlds oldest profession. The funeral trade however must run a close second; and in that time, our industry has seen It's share of the unscrupulous, the perverse and the socially incompetent.

We've all seen the industry's faults, all of us can share horror stories. Despite my lingering misanthrophy and mistrust however, I can still see a place for those of us who do actually care . We are priveleged to be of such an important service. Not to the dead, but to those that the dead leave behind.

I'll finish with an anecdote. Many years ago, we employed my ex-girlfriend in our family run funeral business. Not long after she started we were entrusted with the care and commital of an old boy who apparently looked very much like the ex-girlfriends sick grandfather. She of course reacted badly and doubted her fortitude. I explained to her what we do in these terms; We provide a service that will remain in the memory of those that survive that nobody else can parallel. You will eventually forget a nice fat tax return, you will relegate the details of a house or car purchase to distant memory; but as long as you live, you will remember the funeral service of somebody you loved.

That's what we do. We serve the living and not the dead and when we care, we get enormous job satisfaction, really.

Deadcentre

Observations on life and death in London later.

something to consider when choosing a casket for your loved one.

I have nothing to do. There are no families to meet with. No bodies to make pretty. There are no projects to tackle. Well, there are ALWAYS projects to tackle at a funeral home but I have pretty much decided that those are not my jobs unless I am specifically asked to do something. I am being paid to be a mortician and not being paid to be a lawn-boy. We already have a lawn boy. Sometimes I am the IT guy. For instance, yesterday I hooked up a 47 inch flat screen TV to a computer with a wireless connection to the network. That was fun. Now on the weekends I have a new and wonderful place to watch streaming netflix. You better believe I do.

The real reason that this monstrosity exists is because we have done away with our casket showroom and replaced it with this screen. Well at least we are getting closer to that dream anyway. Since we leveled the showroom we have been selling out of a picture book and it has been just fine. No one seems to care one bit. Funny huh? You might think that you would want to kick the tires (or tyres maybe, depending on where you are from) on Mom's new ride before you pulled the trigger but apparently not. Herein lies the interesting part to me...

When we had the showroom, they used it. They used it well I suppose. I once watched a Laotian family throw bones and coins at caskets until the right combination came up to make the decision. Many times I witnessed families laying their loved ones clothes into the casket so see how Mom's dress would look against the Rayon, (Rayon chafes you know...). So wow, here we are now, no showroom, no velvet interiors to lovingly stroke, no highly polished stainless steel gleaming under the humming fluorescent lights. How did this change peoples ability to choose? Not one bit. Because we took away their ability to ponder the possibles, they now just flip through the book until they see something that looks decent and point. "That's the one Dad had, that one will be fine". Before, when we had a showroom, they took their time (well, not all did, some just walked in and said, "which one is the cheapest?") and made the decision because that was part of the arrangement process. To a certain degree, that is what people expected to do when they came down to the funeral parlour. We have just taken that away from them and given them damn little choice about it. Is that wrong? Will this influence these people's ability to properly grieve the death of the loved one? I don't know, but I tend to doubt it very much. A casket is a box to place a dead body in and place into the ground. Period. Caskets serve a highly utilitarian purpose. They hold our dead and make them easier to carry.

How much more should caskets do for us? If it is so easy to pick one out of a book, (and people have told me that it is MUCH easier than "going into that dreadful room") why is there so much value placed upon this thing? Why do people care about color, finish, interior, wood species, precious metal, memory drawer, customizable corners, etc. etc. etc? Folks, I can not answer that one. I would not even try.

I write this post, like all of my posts, completely off the cuff. I generally never know what I am going to write about until I am writing it. There are many, many things to say about caskets and I am barely scratching the surface with my musings. Factors included when choosing a casket (if you must) are historic, religious, socio-economic, cultural and environmental. Caskets make us think about what we are, who they were, why we are and what will eventually be. They symbolize death for us and make it real. Caskets are a tool for making the unreal, real.

Hmmmm. I think I better stop writing now.

I can't quit now, I've only just begun.

Folks, prepare yourselves. Morticianswax has a new accomplice. I am quite sure you will enjoy his presence here. Soon.

My ability to keep up with this poor little blog is questionable at best. New blood is needed and I really do believe that with this injection of new ideas we might actually benefit from it. Or not.

No big philosophical arguments today folks. Just a quick post to tell you that I really am going to keep up this time. I have had a lot on my mind this past year and most of it would not allow me to be a very good mortician. Now, as the smoke clears, I see myself finding third gear and pressing upon the gas pedal. It is time to rock folks. Shall we?

Just a few nuggets of wonderfulness for you to chew on

heh heh heh. it's been a year already?

wow. sorry. I guess. poor little blog, so neglected...

I am back. Really. If there is anyone out there that still gets a post feed for this thing well...hello again.

Let's start at the beginning of the new beginning. I am still a mortician, that did not change. My out look on this profession has not changed much either, I think it is rife with corruption, misdirection and greed. I don't do that shit so it has little bearing on me and what I do so there is that I suppose. What has changed in my world of the dismal trade is that I don't care what others do. Doing this job as a zombie (which is another thing that I believe now, I think that if a zombie attack came on, undertakers would really be the only ones that could save the earth. remember that, we may be the only hope for all of humanity in that scenario) will only serve to mess up that individual. People have choices. They can choose to be free and open and truthful or they can choose to bury their heads in convention and plod dutifully on.

My wife and I are divorcing after being together for about 14 years. we are doing this because we need to. Because we want to. It is nobodies business but ours. we have two beautiful boys that will know that they have two parents that not only love them with all of their hearts and souls but have two parents that love each other enough to still be be amazing friends. Friends that were once lovers. People that care enough for one another that they know that staying together will cause them to not be the amazing beautiful people that they are.

I have a new idea for a crematory here where I live. This particular idea would turn the industry completely on it's head. I am very excited about it. It would be called ____________ CREMATORY AND FUNERAL HOME and then underneath the name would read "fuck you, it's cheap" . What do you think? Stripping the business from any sort of compassion or caring and getting down to the business at hand, getting rid of grandma's body. I mean, it is just a body right? Our firm would have death certificate forms and cremation authorizations available on our website. We would accept all major credit cards over the phone. Bringing in your own container for the cremated remains would be encouraged. If you wanted to save another 100 bucks, you could bring your dead to us. We don't care. We would be cheap. you think I am kidding. I am not. This is the model that needs to rise up from the wreckage right now. At least we would be honest...

We spend so much time attempting to figure out how to think based on what other people tell us. what a refreshing thought it is to finally think for ourselves based on how we feel. Anyone out there feel that?

I have never been more ready and optimistic in my life. I am headed off to live with my parents next weekend. This will be in the house that I grew up in. I will be sleeping in the room in the basement that I listened to a CD player for the first time. the room that saw my first porn mags and crusty socks. The room that has the closet I tried to grow dope in until my mom noticed the light coming out of the steamer trunk. The room I cried myself to sleep in when life just seemed too complicated.

Well, life got more complicated than that. A lot more. My path has taken me on some pretty amazing journeys. All of those journeys boil down to one thing. Now. right fucking now. The future will come. The past is gone but never forgotten. Now is when I can be hopeful. Now is when I can be filled with love. The world is truly an amazing place if we are willing to open ourselves up to that.

Thank you to all of the people out there that have been there when I was ready to learn from them. I have become who I am because I took something from every single one of you. I will repay you by dispersing your wisdom to anyone willing to listen.

I am thinking about opening up this blog to a new contributor. After this post I doubt he will want to. I encourage him to read further. It is time for morticanswax to grow into something new and better. -A. Mortician