Last night I dreamed about Neil - that his death didn't "stick" and he came back to life through some metaphysical technicality. In my dream everyone threw him a party at an industrial warehouse and we were all doing shots and they didn't even taste that bad. I guess that's my hope for the afterlife, really. That binge drinking will be more palitable.
Neil's funeral service was two weeks ago, but whenever I think of it I still don't believe it really, because it's so unfair, it's like trying to convince your brain that chocolate is bad for you or that the Hills is fake. I went to the service at the Douglas funeral home in Lexington, and the place wasn't big enough to fit all the mourners. 50 or so chairs filled up. They brought in more chairs. Those all filled up. People lined the hallway outside, filled the adjoining rooms.
I couldn't see into the service, so I spent the time staring in turns at the wallpaper and the back of a young lady's very mod patterned dress. My mind wandered to thoughts that were stunningly narcissistic. Who do I recognize? Is everyone dressed cuter than me? Good thing I weigh the same I did in high school. That way when surprise things like funerals come up, I don't have to starve myself for two weeks in advance.
In my dream I was going to this resurrection party, and I was all psyched that Neil was back, but also I was concerned about who I would sit with. Would I know anyone? Would anyone talk to me?
I've thought about a lot of things in the wake of Neil's death. One is that maybe I should outgrow some of my fitting-in anxiety. After all, if there was anything that Neil's life exemplified it wasn't giving a fuck. I could stand to inherit a little bitty bit of that.