Leichenschmaus

Walking back to the Ford Tourneo Courier Ecoboost 1.0 after the second funeral in as many days, a crow (corvis frugileus, or rook) hollers at me, I throw it the last Frolic brand dog kibble hiding in my pocket, which it then eats (for the sake of clarity, I was walking to the car, the crow was sitting in a tree when it yelled). I catch up with my group, who then go to the restroom, which is where I was returning from; eventually we all reunite and hop into the car and enter the address into the (really irritating) GPS thing and depart for the next station of the day, the Leichenschmaus, or funeral meal.
Earlier, standing in front of the casket prior to the talking, I thought about the woman inside, who had lived to 95, and how she had danced the boogie at her 90th birthday party and, when we were leaving and I kissed her on the cheek, turned her head and had me kiss her other cheek too. She was okay.
I had spare ribs at the funeral meal. They were a bit dry but the sauces were good, as were the french fries. Her 4 year old great-granddaughter ran around serving people items she had cooked up on the toy kitchen in the corner of the restaurant’s dining room — I got “spicy coffee.”
Afterwards, we left. Gamma caught a ride to the subway, I drove the rest of the posse home – Beta to her apartment in Vienna, Alpha to our house, Alpha’s mom Alpha senior back to her place.
I was tired. It was partly, I think, the spare ribs, alcohol and schnapps at the meal (of which I partook judiciously and soberly being the driver), partly all (both) the funerals – at which we were more supporting actors than principals, praise be; partly the usual struggle to be social in social situations, partly constantly worrying about a couple cultural things I may have committed myself to a while back involving public interaction with strangers; also the current state of things and, whatever, other stuff, other stuff, other stuff.
After too many funerals you think, first, “boy I hope i never see another funeral” but then you realize what that means and change it to, “boy I could sure use a wedding or baptism for a change.”
And then you go back to other stuff. Hydrating. Getting proper sleep and exercise. Doing a word puzzle for the brain. Learning something. Plotting your next shenanigan or your next hijink. Hugging somebody.

Reanimator

If you’re going to reanimate something it’s easier if a loved one does not fall in a parking garage and break multiple limbs and you have to take care of them but even if they do you can still reanimate something. If you’re going to reanimate something, in my case rye sourdough starter, you will need a little time, a few days worth, so it helps to be patient and it helps to come to the procedure with an experimental, scientific state of mind, “let’s see how this goes” rather than a capitalistic, managerial, “you must reanimate” state of mind. This is because reanimating sourdough starter is similar to *starting* sourdough starter, which you did with this particular sourdough starter back in the olden days of the Covid lockdown, that’s right during that renaissance of the human spirit when capitalistic pressures were briefly lifted and we were free to experiment with the science of being human rather than hold our noses to the grindstone like the rest of the time. And when starting starter you just add a little flour and a little water every day until it bubbles and you can’t rush it, you just wait for bacteria to drop out of the air and start to bubble and hope it is the right bacteria and not something weird from the cats or a little kid, say. It happens when it happens. Reanimation is similar, except the starter has proven it works, the bacteria are there somewhere, just in too weak a concentration, but you know if they are not all completely dead they will eventually show themselves again if you keep feeding them patiently. Anyway they eventually did, after a few days of feeding them equal amounts of flour and water, by weight. They are bubbly now and my wife got her casts off, which I might celebrate tomorrow by baking a loaf of bread or two.

What is my art

Cat with only slight halitosis
wakes you up in the middle of the night
licking your beard as you remember
how happy you were when she finally came home
one cold winter after being missing for weeks
and everyone else gave up but you didn’t
and one night she just scratched on the door
like before and you let her in
skinny and dirty and sick
with a variety of parasites
and she keeps licking your beard
with little grunting noises mixed in with the purring
you wonder which parasites they were
you think of all the sick mice she probably ate
on her heroic snowy winter trek home
and probably still eats and she licks and licks
licks and grunts and licks, pure love.

I had one of those dreams in my head when I woke up.
One of those *bam* dreams
that would change your life
if only you could recall one or two fuzzy things
I was talking to a baby that was also older than a baby
it looked like a drawing I made of Beta when she was a baby
so, basically a baby with curly fine light baby hair
but underneath that darker straighter older hair
and the baby said goo-goo ga-ga stuff for a while
but then it also said, and I quote,
“You have to decide what your art is.”
And art means art, but it also means (in German) “kind” or maybe “essence”.
I told people about the baby, in the dream
and they all said, no, the baby doesn’t say goo-goo ga-ga it talks
the baby can talk.
And I said, yeah, I know.
And I woke up feeling it all through my body