You can’t choose one. It’s a package deal.
Much as I’d like to be a great big badass bitch I can spend months moping and afraid of my own shadow. And mad? Yep. in the British AND the American sense.
I remember walking through London with full blown mania, yelling and screaming in paranoid fashion at the crowds of people in the Underground and so on. ‘You’re not bad, you’re just mad and sad!!!’
Well I guess I was probably using bad in the traditional and not the Michael Jackson sense. I was trying to reassure myself as much as anything, because all those people intimidated and scared me.
We’re all of us, all three.
Barbara of Equals Training, who once upon a time graced this blog with her anonymous presence to spew forth some bile she’d collected opined that I was a narcissist, and that this blog was all about me!
Laughing my ass off. Because it’s perfectly true. Who else would it be about???
But in talking for myself I believe I talk for many others too. None of us would be bothered to read, watch or consume any kind of art or entertainment if we didn’t find traces of ourselves in there! So yes Barbara. Me and the rest of the human race. Want to see a real-life narc? Go look in the mirror. Lol.
I’ve written extensively about demons and the art of demon-taming on this blog. Well mad, bad and sad could be to demons what ‘earth, air, fire and water’ is to chemical elements. They are the very foundations on which we’re built. Deny it if you must. Argue until you’re blue in the face, but please make it a tasteful shade of blue so as not to offend my aesthetic sensibilities, OK?
God my tangential mind is even more tangential than usual! I can’t seem to stay on any topic for more than two seconds. They all lead inexorably to another and another and another until I crash back on the sofa utterly spent and exhausted.
Talk about stream of consciousness. Having discussed being blue in the face I now want to talk about corpses! I’d say wtf is wrong with me but it’s darn obvious what’s wrong with me. I’ve been up most of the night drinking coffee and I’m hypomanic. So let’s just go with the flow and see where it takes us. I start off with a title and many times have to change it, or just leave it but veer wildly off-topic in the course of the post. The manic mind folks.
So yup, corpses. They’re not too nice are they? Who said he wanted to die young and leave a beautiful corpse? Fill in the blank. It’s impossible anyway, coz no corpse is EVER beautiful.
You calling me morbid, I’ll show you morbid! Lol.
Did you ever see Marilyn Monroe’s death pic? I rest my case, coz her light had been put out.
Oh let’s talk about the conspiracy to murder Marilyn and how they just wanted you to think it was suicide! This is becoming impossible. My thoughts are going wild. Let’s get more coffee. Lol.
‘So what do you do, Louise?’ ‘Uh, I write a lengthy suicide note.’ ‘Oh how interesting, what does that involve and how did you get into that field?’ ‘Uh, I was born a human on Planet Earth. How ’bout you?’
We only carefully read the words of people we care about. People we love or admire. Anyone else we skim to get the gist. One day someone may love and admire me enough to read every word, as I have read so many others. Whether they be mad, bad or sad, or a wacky combination of all three.
So yeah. Back to death, dying, decomposing, rotting, putrefying. disintegrating and dissolving into the dust we came from. Wow, that was a lot of ‘d’s’.What’s so freakin’ bad or even scary about death anyway? I think about it all the time, come rain or shine, it’s the next Really Big Adventure.
But corpses? Ugh. They’re nasty. Can’t sugarcoat it. However appealing death might be, dead bodies suck. I had to wrap my dead cat in a blanket. She was cold and stiff. There was no beauty in it. She wasn’t her anymore. It was just a thing I had to dispose of in a suitably respectful and loving manner but she was no longer around to care one way or the other.
I instinctively shrank from touching her, hence the blanket. I rewrapped her in a piece of cotton for the burial. One thing I didn’t want to do was gaze upon her corpse.
I’m reading a book called ‘Every Cradle is a Grave’ by Sarah Perry. And by gosh it’s true. We all get to be an ugly ‘thing’ that someone must disdainfully touch to dispose of it. No fucker wants to see that shit. To be born is to die. It’s as simple as that. Might as well get used to the idea.