09/26/2004 - 9:12 p.m. | mary full of grace

Holy shit, I go to school now, what? That's what they tell me anyway. It's been more or less a week since I've really been in school, and it turns out you miss a lot in a week. Someone becomes a drug dealer, a few more people join the list of adulterers, and maybe I'm not even telling you as much as I know. Imagine that. Anyway, I'm pathetically behind, with not only these last few days to talk about, but also the Austin trip, and the hugeass entry from a long, long time ago. I remember when I had so, so much free time. I'm actually sort of pleased that I don't anymore because now there is always something I could be doing, as well as always something I'm probably blowing off. Let's try and cover the last few days.

Once I had my epic level breakdown on the ride home, either I was through grieving or had built up an effective (actually, an affective) enough wall that nothing was going to get to me anyway. I don't think this makes me a bad person, but it might seem otherwise to other people. At the actual funeral and wake and everything else, people - good, strong people who rarely let their emotions leak out - were breaking down all the time, and I was just kind of there. Did I comfort anyone? No, not really. Did I need to be comforted? No, not that either. Perhaps part of it comes down to my, uh, strong distaste for ritual, but we'll get to that later.

Maybe I got back a bit later than I had indicated. Maybe. But it was late when I got home, and it was only going to be a couple of hours until I had to be up to cross the guard, and I did not feel up for parallel parking, so I just stuck my car in the lot behind our house. Dave Kraft owns it, so I didn't think it would be much of a problem. It turns out it was a good thing I got up when I did, though, because there was a little card of my windshield that said "TOW" on it in marker. Well, fuck you kindly, thanks. I was so pissed off about that. I really contemplated sticking the card on someone else's car so that they would be the ones towed, but I'm not trying to punish them. Had Kraft's truck been there, however.

I did return to class for those couple hours, but I would hardly call it an amazing academic endeavor. Blah blah blah, says teacher. Z z z, says Nate. I had to catch up on those hours sometime, right? And at least I got my attendance points. Fucking attendance points. What a cop-out way to grade students. You don't even know who I am in your boring, useless lecture, but you still force me to come because I am on your little list, and I need your stupid 4 points, and it's awful, and I have to read something else to even look sort of attentive. Well, anyway, I'm pissed. During breaks, I called around about getting another few days off from my jobs. This would be far easier if I had narrowed it down to one, but well, fuck that. "Yes, remember how I was gone those four days? Yeah, I'm gonna need another two." And now that I am back, my schedule's completely dead, and I am in oh-so desperate need of money, because besides that whole "food" business, I believe I have an exam on Monday, which means I'm going to have to add another book to my collection to study for said test, and for whatever God damn reason I have in my head, I really want a negative display digital watch right now - you know, the kind with a black face and white writing? - and even though the best one I found is at Wal-mart for only $18 (The second best being a collectible Men in Black watch for $80 - "Only 2002 ever made! OMG!"), I can't even spare that pittance. A while back, during that stupid shirt ironing fiasco, Shelly suggested that we go into business together. I would design t-shirts, getting paid an hourly rate, and she would supply materials and shit and sell them online. Any time you want to start would be great, I think.

I've been such a transient lately. I swear I haven't spent more than 12 hours in a single place, so it gets to the point where I don't know where I'm at. St. Louis, Austin, Manhattan, Sheridan, Champaign? The nice thing about driving 40 hours this past weekend is that virtually every other trip I go on now seems piddling by comparison. It's a two-and-a-half hour journey from here back home, and it was like nothing at all. Sang a few songs, ate some tortilla chips, and there I was. Back in the midst of the Legrenzi family. Yipe.

I dunno if I've fully shared this with you, but my mom's side of the family is where I get virtually all of my traits. This would include the crazy. So, you know, a regular visit for the holidays or whatever is mad enough, but during a time of grief such as this, it is full-on psychosis. Psychosis and lots of eating. Not sure if this is just Italians or if it happens to everybody, but apparently when someone you know dies, they give you a fucking dumptruck load's worth of food posthaste. Perhaps the idea is you could just ham yourself to death. But then I'm just being morbid. Anyway, my grandma was doing tolerably well - she hasn't been sleeping, which is sort of scary, but she seems strong enough. Mostly it's that she is driving my own mother insane with her particularities - and how my mom cannot quite do any of them right. Yes, that's correct. The brunt of the responsibility for this thing is on the shoulder of the woman who doesn't want it at all, hates it maybe. But what choice does she have? My uncle Larry, who I believe is just as neurotic as the rest of us but would never admit it ever, has been avoiding responsibility like the plague. I know, avoiding the thing is his way of coping, and maybe I would be the same if I was the old me, but even then, I think I'd want to be doing... something. Well, anyway, he's not, and my mom has to deal with all these people, and I think it's starting to crack her. My great uncle Jim, a closet homosexual and possibly the loudest person on earth (He used to live with someone very hard of hearing and has since adapated to just scream - SCREAM - at everyone), is yelling, and she can smell his ass breath across the room, and she was about to off herself for good measure. If I'm not describing this adequately, I blame it on being a little detached from the chaos, by which I mean the family. As I've said before, I've always been sort of apart from them (or the other way around?), and while this time is supposed to bring us together, it didn't do much to help me. I dunno, I hugged and was hugged or whatever, and they told me they loved me, but I dunno... what is it they love about me? I'm really not all that lovable around them - I don't try to be, so this is my fault - but what is there to love then? Like, Grandma was telling me how glad Grandpa would be that I was there. "He loved you so much. He was so proud of you for being so smart and liking school so much." Ummmm. Not to toot my own horn here, but there are so many facets to my personality besides that. And I guess I never showed them off, but then I never thought they would understand. Again, my fault. I am feeling sort of guilty, if you couldn't tell, because I am not a family person, and I worry I might never be. I'm trying to turn things around in my head. Like, let's see I somehow get married. So I assume I'll love the woman I marry. And then we have kids, and I'll probably love them because I made them. But, according to my current logic, if my kids have kids, there is no certainty that I will love these grandchildren, because I'm "just not very close" with extended family. And who's to say that's right?

After some visiting, Mom and I came back home to drown out the madness for a little while. Missy called (She calls now?) and we talked for a while. I guess we're... dating? Well, fuck, I have no idea, and I never liked to put too fine of a point on these things anyway, so we'll just say I'm happy. We all know how well long-distance relationships work out!! It's strange, though; we both totally have one of those cliched vibes from each other where we feel like we've known each other for years. Roger Ebert says, "You can only say "I feel like I've known you for years" to someone you have not known for years," and I think that is fairly clever. All awkwardness passed us at an Old 97's concert months ago. Thus, I am surprised and fairly excited, all of which is new again to me.

Back to the bad stuff. The wake was at 5 the next day, but we left at about 11 to keep my grandma company. And I kept thinking, "Does she want company? Would I?" Well, I have no idea, but there we were. Time to eat more! Mostly we all sat around awkwardly. As part of her grieving process, my mom wanted to write something about her dad. Not really a eulogy, just some memories. It was my job to ghost write this piece, which makes me think of Ghostwriter, which makes me think of Jamal, which makes me giggle. "He's a ghost, and he writes to us! Ghostwriter!" Oh, Jamal, you didn't even know about the pun you were making, did you! I think this is how my mind keeps stable - so many digressions that it can't remember transgressions. I sat outside and wrote this thing, and I felt fairly poetic, but I tried to keep down to earth. I don't know how good it was, but it was my best, so that's that.

Unfortunately, I still hate religion, it seems. Normally, it's just the mindless ritual and symbolism that gets me, and I shall probably expound on that some shortly, but first a specific grievance. Mom and I wrote that thing for her dad, and we typed it up, fairly sure it was good, and then we went to the priest who would be performing the service to ask if he (or I, in a bind) could read it. "Nope." The fuck?! He goes on to explain that the diocese something something blah blah not allowed. How fucking insane is that! This family has given hundreds of hours (and just as many dollars) to the fucking Catholic church, and they won't give us three minutes. Like Jesus Himself is going to fucking burn down from heaven and set us all ablaze - how fucking ridiculous! I suppose this is a pretty good summation of why I don't like religion. Once again, faith is fine - great, even. If you need to believe in something, you go right ahead. I mean, I certainly do. I'm no atheist, and I believe that there is something after death, but I came to this conclusion in my own fucked up way - through psych classes, strangely enough. OK, listen: I've got at least a basic handle on how the brain works, what does what, and the basic functioning of singals, all that. However, no one has been able to satisfactorily explain to me where certain things go. I know that this part of the brain or that one is responsible for memory or personality or whatever, but where are the memories or traits actually at? Never gotten a clear answer ("Uh, electrical signals"). But, does that mean that there is some little neuron up in my head that just keeps firing over and over again so that I remember that time I stepped in dog shit? That just doesn't feel right, so I've started taking a more abstract approach, it seems. There is something about people that is a little too ethereal; it just couldn't be physiological. Therefore, when the body does die, maybe this ether doesn't. Maybe it does, maybe it goes somewhere, maybe not. But I feel that there is something, that's my point. And you can think this is stupid or believe something completely different or nothing at all, and that's great. Religion, however, is the scariest thing in the world. All the rules and absolutely insane cultish rituals that religious officials are desperately trying to legitimize by doing them over and over again. At this funeral service, for instance, they did about a million "Our Father"'s, and everyone just sort of mumbled along. I could very well have done the same, really. But they weren't giving the slightest thought to the words they were saying, they were so garbled and distracted. Then another slew of "Hail Mary"'s, which is the inspiration for today's title because I actually sat there and thought about Mary being full of grace and whatever that means. And they have these little beads that are supposed to mean something except they come from a fucking factory from Akron and little hand signals and the same words over and over. Who is actually paying attention? I guess that's what worries me. If someone followed these rituals, but they really thought about them each time, that would mean something, even if I didn't myself agree. As it is, it's just so creepy! And I know, our fucking society is founded on rituals and symbols - everything is - and I guess that is supposed to be of some comfort that we have this flag that symbolizes our nation and its history and everything, but if you don't actually look at the facts or the history, you're just kind of taking what you're being fed. I guess overall this looping ramble would just come back to the fact that I don't like the rituals we have for death, and I think funerals are very creepy and unhelpful. I really don't like open caskets. Even my mom was starting to say how beautiful Grandpa looked. Ahhhhh, fuck that. No. He's dead. He is a dead body, and there is nothing nice about that. When he was alive and could smile and talk, then he looked good. That isn't him anymore, and I refuse to pretend that it is. I don't have to fucking approach him to pay my respects. All of my conversations with him are in my head in private, and I'm sorry, but I think you are all nuts. And I am a little more freaked out right now than I intended. Maybe I'll take a break.

Sometimes I wish I had a cute little laptop so I could write these diary entries outside, because it smells like FUCKING ASS in here. How is that possible? How do people make a house actually smell? Well, I don't understand it at all. I just wish it smelled nice. I'm going to get some girly candles forthwith.

More guilt, I guess? For the wake, my family made this big poster with all these pictures of my grandpa and his family and everything. Every person in the immediate family (sons, daughters, grandkids) had a picture on the board with him... but me. Now, I'm not so vain that I care about not having a picture up, but still... I feel bad. And then I guess crazy Uncle Jim had been shouting earlier about how my grandpa had left behind two great grandsons, two great grandsons, over and over. And my mom's like, "He had three grandsons." Well, obviously, one of them was not so great. I hope that when I do have extended family of my own that there is a weird little fucker like myself who doesn't like talking about how school is, and I will try so, so hard to befriend him. *shakes head rapidly*

Here's something a little weird: When the rest of the family was talking to the priest (asshole priest!) about memories and stuff about Raymo, someone mentioned that he really liked the word "facetious" and used it all the time. I did not realize this at all, but it was strange because all weekend I had been using it with Missy. I even spelled the fucker. I know, one can make connections with anything, but it's still fun to pretend.

If you know anything about my penchant for being touched by strangers, you can just imagine how much I loved standing in the little Grieve-o-Rama line at the wake. The people look at the body for a second, then go from Grandma to Uncle Larry to Mom to me to Raymo's sister to blah blah blah, shaking hands or hugging, and fuck, do I know any of you? Just another ritual. "My sympathy" they say. My ass. It all seems so fake, and I didnt like it one bit. Dad kept telling me I could get the fuck out of dodge if I wanted, but I dunno... part of me was trying to punish myself a bit for the guilt, I think, but mostly I had no idea where else to go. Who else would I talk to? I need my dad in those situations so we can make snide asides to one another. And as few people as I knew in this line, even fewer knew me, I think. That's fine, but it's another thing that they didn't know my mom, for Christ's sake! She's the daughter of the deceased!! That made me sort of mad, too. Maybe I grieve through abject pissiness. Anyway, once I was introduced, a lot of these old people would point out what a "good lookin' kid" I was. Always like that, too, with no g on the end. I blame nearsightedness. I wish it were socially appropriate for everyone to tell me what a good lookin' kid I was. It would make meeting people a ton easier. Fuck your eye contact. I never understood that anyway. I just try to stare everyone down. Much more fun.

What else then? I dunno. It was three hours of that, but a very good turnout, so that's pretty good. I obviously can't help but think who would come to my own funeral. Try not to think too good of me, guys. That'd just be annoying. Anyway, we went back to Grandma's house for still more food. I tried to make conversation, tried so very hard, but in the end I just sort of sunk into the background and read "100 Questions About The Passion of the Christ" Admittedly, despite all my bitching, some religious stories fascinate me. Mary Magdalene and the Holy Grail and shit. Maybe I'll read The Screwtape Letters and some stuff one of these days.

And then some more stuff happened. I had to get up early, but I still had time for my Brite Spot. I know, how vain is he? But it was sort of fun to dress up. One of these days I would love to get a real suit, one that actually fit. And then cute skinny ties and I'd wear it to work all the time. Back to the funeral home to get the procession together. I sort of fucked up the whole exit the building ritual, but that seems appropriate. Did the whole pallbearer thing. I looked up "pall" the other night to see what I was actually bearing here, and it's apparently the cloth that goes on top of something. Well, we had to carry a lot more than some cloth, I should think. It was pretty heavy, too, which leads me to believe that some of the other six weren't doing their jobs to the fullest extent. Fakers.

Off to the church next. Prayers and all that. I mostly thought about other things. I thought the priest's sermon or whatever about Grandpa was pretty lousy, and I think maybe my mom agreed because she is going to write him a pissy letter. He didn't even know him that well; why would he be the one to speak? Well, the diocese... Fuck off. I followed the bare minimum of rituals, and even I had wanted to go along with it, it was pretty rough 'cause there were a lot of off-key songs and prayers that I had no idea about. Everyone else seemed pretty good, though. Of course, I was still asked to bring "the gifts" up. Asshole Mike made sure to give me the holy water, but I seem to be burn free. I wonder if the priest noticed that I didn't come up for communion or even the "priestly blessing." No voodoo curses, please. Incidentally, anyone else a little creeped out by those people who don't actually take the wafer in their hands but actually have the priest put in in the mouths. BLEEEHHHH is always the sound I imagine them making. BLEEEEHHH.

The funeral itself was pretty short. Couple of prayers, and then they did the whole military thing, which was pretty cool. Folding of the flag, 21 gun salute, even fucking "Taps," which I think brought me the closest to tears thus far. They gave me one of the used shells from the salute. "Here, he'll want this." I guess? I know, stop having bitchy qualms with everything, but it's like we're so focused on our made up bullshit that we're ignoring the important things.

I know, afterparty is totally the wrong term here, but I can't think of the right one, so that's what we'll call it. Beep, beep HEY! Still more food, way too much actually, which just led to Mom hilariously chasing people around and making them take home plates of stuff. My parent's friend Joe Stopa was there, which is always fun, because we get to be music snobs together and see who knows the more obscure bands. Roughly tied, I think. Dad and I thought that the serving tray next to the potatoes was filled with butter, then maybe gravy. After putting some on my puhtatas (hehe - that's how Missy says it), I still have no idea. Doing my best to show that I really do have some vested interest in this family, at least as far as my mom and dad go, I read the thing my mom and I wrote. I even tried to be loud for the old people; none of them heard it. And then I got a little sad because all of those old people attending funerals will eventually be the ones the funerals are for, and then we ourselves will become old people. And our bodies will become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. Instead of staying on this, I watched everyone else do shots of Christian Brothers brandy, as it was my grandpa's favorite drink. I was allowed - encouraged, even - to do one myself, but I had to drive home, I said, by which I mean brandy is fucking worse than anything. We went back to Grandma's for a while, but when am I not feeling awkward? I headed home.

I guess that's it. I probably sound like an asshole in this entry. Maybe I am, in fact. Maybe I just deal with this not so great. Things will be different when they come around, though. That's all I have to say.