tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18258320769195147302024-03-17T20:01:15.068-07:00Posy-Filled PocketsPosy-Filled Pockets is a death-positive community project designed to encourage conversations about our mortality through Art, Academics, Industry and Advocacy. Illuminating storytelling, engaging activities, accessible information and community workshops in an easy, entertaining atmosphere.PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-74974723429021368792018-06-14T21:14:00.001-07:002018-06-14T21:18:43.096-07:00Liam Lambert: The fine art of dying well<a href="https://www.theunion.com/opinion/liam-lambert-the-fine-art-of-dying-well/#.WyM9CgPXqlV.blogger">Liam Lambert: The fine art of dying well</a>: <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Taboos seem to come and go in this country, moving like tides across the face of the land. What once was considered abhorrent becomes reasonable dinner table conversation with a few passing years.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The one thing, though, that seems to be an abiding taboo among North Americans is the subject of how we die.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ironically, we'll give all sorts of TMI about the various and sundry rituals with which we prolong our youth and keep ourselves healthy, but no one seems to want to deal with how the story ends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A possible reason for this is that the process of death is so closely linked, to the point of being overwhelmed by, the process of grieving, which is terribly stigmatized.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Having a healthier attitude towards how our lives end can’t help but improve the way our lives are lived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Globally, though, things are different. From Irish wakes to Tibetan spiritual rituals, global cultures are far more accepting of death and its accoutrements, seeing it as an inevitable bookend to life. Here in America though, we seem to have something of an unhealthy distance we put between ourselves and the reality of dying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Recently, a federal judge overturned California's Death with Dignity bill, which gave terminally ill Californians the right to choose physician-assisted suicide as a treatment option. The judge claimed that the bill was passed illegally in explaining his decision. It is perhaps worth noting that the people behind the lawsuit though, are medical lobbyists, who have historically long opposed the right to die in America.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The question of a right to death has been almost as controversial as the question of the right to life, with court cases stretching back to the early '90s, and Dr. Jack Kevorkian and his Final Solution book. However, when one considers the question as one of quality of life, one has to wonder, at what point do we as a culture say enough is enough? While not everyone can control the means by which they go, doesn't it make sense for those who can to allow for the possibility to avoid prolonged suffering?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shouldn't death-care be an intrinsic part of life-care? As it stands, the ability for many Californians to make that choice is in limbo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Among those who support the law's reinstatement are members of the death positivity movement, who view death not as a dreary nightmare, but an inevitable, important and even joyous proposition. Locally, a group called Posy-Filled Pockets is trying to change the way Nevada County looks at death and dying, using humor, information and a clear-eyed integrity that aims to take some of the sting out of death and dying.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Posy-Filled Pockets is the brainchild of local resident Rachel James, an outgrowth of her time as a member of The Order of the Good Death, a consortium of artists, academics and death professionals dedicated to providing information, resources and direction for people grappling with death's various issues, as well as shifting the cultural perspective on death and dying in general. James and her partner in crime, funeral director Tim Lilyquist, offer a broad range of death-related activities, from talks and workshops to field trips, film screenings and food tastings.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">James' recent experience caring for her terminally ill father have definitely colored the way she approaches the project.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"I realized I have lived experience now, skin in the game, and that makes all the difference," she said. She aims to destigmatize the question of death a little, via her events. She explains, "We do one evening event that has a ticket price. These are funny and educational and lighthearted. Then, also once a month, we hold a separate workshop, for free. The workshops are more practical, involve discussions about stigma, laws, burial plans, advanced directives and provide local resources."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So many people, it seems, treat death as a terrible, somber, life-changing experience, and it is all those things. Far be it for me or anyone to suggest otherwise. However, is it not also an opportunity to reflect upon and celebrate the existence of people who have had enormous, deep and meaningful impacts on our lives? However we do it, doesn't it make more sense to celebrate the life lost than continue to mourn them as time goes on? Having a healthier attitude towards how our lives end can't help but improve the way our lives are lived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Posy-Filled Pockets is having a reorganizational meeting at 7 p.m. June 20, at Chapel of the Angels Mortuary, 250 Race St. Grass Valley. All newcomers and the curious welcome. You can get more information or ask any relevant questions at <a href="mailto:info@posy-filledpockets.com" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0a5eac; text-decoration-line: none;">info@posy-filledpockets.com</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Liam Lambert, who lives in Grass Valley, is a member of The Union Editorial Board. His views are his own and do not represent the views of The Union or its editorial board members. Contact him at <a href="mailto:EditBoard@TheUnion.com" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0a5eac; text-decoration-line: none;">EditBoard@TheUnion.com</a>.</span></div>
PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-27959761305422778142016-07-11T17:23:00.010-07:002016-07-11T18:27:33.328-07:00The Decorum of Despair <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some people say there is no right or wrong when it comes to dealing with a death. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />We disagree. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's hard to know what to say or do during the mourning process, and no one likes being "that guy" at a funeral. We can help! We will demonstrate the most horrendously horrible faux pas from both the professional and personal side of the coffin, compare cultural differences of opinion on the manner of manners, and welcome special guest speaker Marisa Lenhardt Patton from San Francisco, creator of the fantastic death etiquette blog, <a href="https://deathiquette.wordpress.com/" rel="nofollow" style="padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Deathiquette">Deathiquette</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there will be a quiz...and cocktails!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please join us as we give you some tips on the best ways to stay friends with the living while you grieve your dead, and toast to those poor suckers who learned the hard way. </span></div>
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<dt class="label-primary" data-automation="listing-info-language" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHEN</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><time class="clrfix" data-automation="event-details-time" style="zoom: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Saturday, July 16, 2016 from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM (PDT)<span class="hide-small hide-medium"></span></span></time></dd>
<dt class="label-primary" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHERE</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Holbrooke - 212 West Main Street, Grass Valley, CA 95945 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tickets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Event Brite - just click on the event poster over to the right under our Calendar of Events! ---></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Paper Tickets at Clocktower and KitKitDizzy</span></dd>noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-90076470924380283712016-07-11T17:23:00.009-07:002016-07-11T17:41:42.850-07:00The Decorum of Despair <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some people say there is no right or wrong when it comes to dealing with a death. </span></span><br />
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />We disagree. </span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's hard to know what to say or do during the mourning process, and no one likes being "that guy" at a funeral. We can help! We will demonstrate the most horrendously horrible faux pas from both the professional and personal side of the coffin, compare cultural differences of opinion on the manner of manners, and welcome special guest speaker Marisa Lendhart-Patton from San Francisco, creator of the fantastic death etiquette blog, <a href="https://deathiquette.wordpress.com/" rel="nofollow" style="padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Deathiquette">Deathiquette</a>.</span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there will be a quiz...and cocktails!</span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please join us as we give you some tips on the best ways to stay friends with the living while you grieve your dead, and toast to those poor suckers who learned the hard way. </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<dt class="label-primary" data-automation="listing-info-language" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHEN</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><time class="clrfix" data-automation="event-details-time" style="zoom: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Saturday, July 16, 2016 from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM (PDT)<span class="hide-small hide-medium"></span></span></time></dd>
<dt class="label-primary" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHERE</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Holbrooke - 212 West Main Street, Grass Valley, CA 95945 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tickets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Event Brite - just click on the event poster over to the right under our Calendar of Events! ---></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Paper Tickets at Clocktower and KitKitDizzy</span></dd>noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-33458852783385249512016-07-11T17:23:00.008-07:002016-07-11T17:31:38.877-07:00The Decorum of Despair <span style="letter-spacing: 0.5px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Some people say there is no right or wrong when it comes to dealing with a death. </span></span><br />
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />We disagree. </span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It's hard to know what to say or do during the mourning process, and no one likes being "that guy" at a funeral. We can help! We will demonstrate the most horrendously horrible faux pas from both the professional and personal side of the coffin, compare cultural differences of opinion on the manner of manners, and welcome special guest speaker Marisa Lendhart-Patton from San Francisco, creator of the fantastic death etiquette blog, <a href="https://deathiquette.wordpress.com/" rel="nofollow" style="padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank" title="Deathiquette">Deathiquette</a>.</span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, there will be a quiz...and cocktails!</span></div>
<div style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; padding: 10px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Please join us as we give you some tips on the best ways to stay friends with the living while you grieve your dead, and toast to those poor suckers who learned the hard way. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<dt class="label-primary" data-automation="listing-info-language" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHEN</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><time class="clrfix" data-automation="event-details-time" style="zoom: 1;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Saturday, July 16, 2016 from 8:00 PM to 11:00 PM (PDT)<span class="hide-small hide-medium"></span></span></time></dd>
<dt class="label-primary" style="font-weight: 600; letter-spacing: 0.5px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">WHERE</span></dt>
<dd class="event-detail-data" style="letter-spacing: 0.5px; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Holbrooke - 212 West Main Street, Grass Valley, CA 95945 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Tickets</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Event Brite - just click on the event poster over to the right under our Calendar of Events! ---></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Paper Tickets at Clocktower and KitKitDizzy</span></dd>noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-66331884060459453832016-06-14T21:53:00.001-07:002016-06-14T21:55:12.594-07:00<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Posy-Filled Pockets has a guest curator this month! Our very own coordinator Skye Bergen will be curating Death & the Feminine. She will be co-presenting with special guest, and local Grass Valley tattoo artist, Alycia Harr. Other fantastic speakers of the evening will be Courtney Williams, Jamaica Karr, and the ever-present Tim Lilyquist. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Buy your tickets online ahead of time! </span><br />
<a href="https://www.eventbrite.com/e/death-and-the-feminine-tickets-26068021153" rel="nofollow" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">https://www.eventbrite.com/e/death-and-the-feminine-tickets-26068021153</span></a><br />
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<br />noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-52950791000851771332016-06-12T01:08:00.000-07:002016-06-12T01:09:41.872-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAuJDLQiLMfAG19JqZVh2hdC4vqrLXhP_2uBZIZi9YzS-g8h5wlF_OFRZqTjLNSzOyOOLzbKJ56IQ5VfaIIQcdRTrYYpCSyqrE_aBPEcVShy5HRiDkh1PMq1xhm5djuWFCdljGEj2Mts4/s1600/PFPDandFposter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAuJDLQiLMfAG19JqZVh2hdC4vqrLXhP_2uBZIZi9YzS-g8h5wlF_OFRZqTjLNSzOyOOLzbKJ56IQ5VfaIIQcdRTrYYpCSyqrE_aBPEcVShy5HRiDkh1PMq1xhm5djuWFCdljGEj2Mts4/s640/PFPDandFposter.JPG" width="494" /></a></div>
<br />noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-42674941087191407892016-05-17T10:32:00.003-07:002016-05-17T10:34:45.637-07:00End Scene<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">Film! Intrigue! Death! Murder! Booze!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;"></span><br />That's right. <br /><br /><u>Booze. And Death. And Film.</u> <br /><br />Booze- because we are holding this month's event at the Iron Door! <br /><br />Death- because that's what we do. <br /><br />Film- because it is one of the most important media formats of our time.<br /><br />Join us this Friday evening down in the Iron Door for an evening of mysteries, mirages, and murders real and reproduced as we explore the relationship between death and one of our favorite distractions - the magnificent world of moving pictures.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />Friday, May 20th</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">7:30pm</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">$15</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Iron Door at the Holbrooke Hotel</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">212 West Main Street</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Grass Valley, CA 95945</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We would also like to thank everyone who gave to our GoFundMe campaign. Without your support we would not be bale to hold this month's event at the Holbrooke. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Thank you!</span></div>
noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-28538448108585593362016-03-24T23:30:00.003-07:002016-05-09T17:04:59.790-07:00A Lovely Corpse RecapIt was a dark and stormy night...<br />
<br />
No seriously, it really was. We had a great time anyway. There were cookies.<br />
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Our Death & Beauty event "A Lovely Corpse" on Sunday, March 20th was indeed, quite lovely. Even though it was incredibly dark and pouring rain, a few new faces braved the storm from Sacramento to join the audience. They drank our Kool-Aid, and we're pretty sure they liked it.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziXJDp9K6eIrGBFXl5IL4JboVXt4MFrqJRyD_fi_QLFBMu9GIPQY0rETkxMPtKADhb3Tq3YsEO_mZXF86nXnnv6Dlch-5u3MO_3D8x9TAeXySbiIE2QwK_yULfRUDD80N4l2hkgoSpfU/s1600/IMG_9690.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziXJDp9K6eIrGBFXl5IL4JboVXt4MFrqJRyD_fi_QLFBMu9GIPQY0rETkxMPtKADhb3Tq3YsEO_mZXF86nXnnv6Dlch-5u3MO_3D8x9TAeXySbiIE2QwK_yULfRUDD80N4l2hkgoSpfU/s640/IMG_9690.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Either PFP Art Director Skye Beren has threatened them quietly, or they're into us.</td></tr>
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Tim not only managed to make the subject of a mortician's wardrobe riveting and delivered some serious slides FINALLY, he took enough tasteful backside shots to possibly release his own beefcake calendar come 2017. (GOALS. WE HAVE THEM.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqhtgsg5a83-iRK2npzKY1DfVyZUNDzxJ0MoYMYL1DSKEMMjDwMBTG6AH5J_4KKWdP3LCF0Jnx0MusjJx3QdTS3XVpTfo8QD2D2vuuq0cC1AEa5LSGythiPZ37-c_emO5P_aGw7d10Bw/s1600/IMG_9695.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqhtgsg5a83-iRK2npzKY1DfVyZUNDzxJ0MoYMYL1DSKEMMjDwMBTG6AH5J_4KKWdP3LCF0Jnx0MusjJx3QdTS3XVpTfo8QD2D2vuuq0cC1AEa5LSGythiPZ37-c_emO5P_aGw7d10Bw/s640/IMG_9695.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resident PFP mortician Tim Lilyquist really DOES put the "fun" in....sorry. We know better.</td></tr>
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In anticipation of Tim being slideless, he was, as usual, gifted with some creative ones we made for him. Boy did we look stupid when he busted out the best slides EVER. We think someone helped him. We would like them to help us too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheT9IlI1gUMfmY7WzYLJMdqpMz_TiJqdUBn1-x0mPYCTz6rdaiJw4WhpgGtW6roGf9R4LCsv7PyNb6FMOBi3EU3baDvMilWfP8DITJjg-xWxGhSmNh1FKi8ukaab8CDIHjG1Ob3tADKms/s1600/IMG_9665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheT9IlI1gUMfmY7WzYLJMdqpMz_TiJqdUBn1-x0mPYCTz6rdaiJw4WhpgGtW6roGf9R4LCsv7PyNb6FMOBi3EU3baDvMilWfP8DITJjg-xWxGhSmNh1FKi8ukaab8CDIHjG1Ob3tADKms/s640/IMG_9665.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No. No we don't know better. We're liars that don't know better.</td></tr>
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Posy-Filled Pockets, at your service. These faces are our helpful, informative faces. These are the faces we make when we're ad libbing our intro because Rachel has been busy planning shows two months ahead of time while neglecting the current one, and Tim's business picks up just enough to keep him locked up behind mortuary doors until the day before a show. Don't worry. We totally know what we're doing.<br />
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Did you see we had cookies? There were cookies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVzF2Slp6eh1oCpp6HgH09hMxEXUHKmoJ3yGYk3KfvC156A2WSh_ZhJLyYxa3CuNuo8F8Xuaa3t57GJTRTRkaclm-wikA-v_xjT8UxAGlW2oXWedd7Fnw3NBsdnO3mwl-4N3oKfe-ZT0/s1600/IMG_9691.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVzF2Slp6eh1oCpp6HgH09hMxEXUHKmoJ3yGYk3KfvC156A2WSh_ZhJLyYxa3CuNuo8F8Xuaa3t57GJTRTRkaclm-wikA-v_xjT8UxAGlW2oXWedd7Fnw3NBsdnO3mwl-4N3oKfe-ZT0/s640/IMG_9691.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel and Tim, your impeccably dressed, hand clutching hosts. </td></tr>
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Special Guest Marci Bennett from San Francisco's <a href="http://www.oddsalon.com/" target="_blank">Odd Salon</a> spoke on the Glamorization of Expiration. "Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse." James Dean did not actually say that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdd7VxZCKENIRJVNr-ZO87lPD0ssNb8uH6bHDOzSdPzOR2M6EiyHs4HV-j2E5mS9Sn7aAuZYPbHoDopBkaXk0kTTuGfn-jizvhene01b3vzM1hmxmlRVclbCj3iPtq-do1aYTqesdjWZ8/s1600/IMG_9694.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdd7VxZCKENIRJVNr-ZO87lPD0ssNb8uH6bHDOzSdPzOR2M6EiyHs4HV-j2E5mS9Sn7aAuZYPbHoDopBkaXk0kTTuGfn-jizvhene01b3vzM1hmxmlRVclbCj3iPtq-do1aYTqesdjWZ8/s640/IMG_9694.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marci Bennett explains shows us horrific auto accidents and heroin addicts. For fashion.</td></tr>
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Courtney<span style="background-color: white; color: #4e5665; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span>Williams entertained us with Fatal Fashions. Arsenic-laced formal wear, anyone? For those keeping score at home, at least two PFP participants were wearing items on her list.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHM0L753hzGp4Pc7f0xO1clMWRKK252Ywd-Ihhi-Kx38wvxHyOfJu-0CZ9taIw03MGYHHSHGCSofToYslsl6Kc1zUyLarrPvOE_lg_TfHaRx_e22d-THW-Wm4Q2fh2n3FiN90_eb7twOs/s1600/IMG_9698.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHM0L753hzGp4Pc7f0xO1clMWRKK252Ywd-Ihhi-Kx38wvxHyOfJu-0CZ9taIw03MGYHHSHGCSofToYslsl6Kc1zUyLarrPvOE_lg_TfHaRx_e22d-THW-Wm4Q2fh2n3FiN90_eb7twOs/s640/IMG_9698.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtney discussing her fatal fashion topic further with audience member and soap maven Normal Vincent of Outlaw Soaps</td></tr>
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Despite the horrible weather, our third evening event was the best one yet, and the presentations just keep getting better and better. Tim had slides! The next two months are big shows for us. In April we'll be focusing on the subject of suicide education and local resources, and in May we'll be making our big venue move to the Iron Door, under the historic <a href="http://holbrooke.com/" target="_blank">Holbrooke Hotel</a>, which we're hoping will be our new home for the evening events. (Workshops will remain at The Chapel of the Angels Mortuary.) </div>
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Keep an eye on our <a href="https://www.facebook.com/posyfilledpockets/" target="_blank">Facebook</a> page as well as our <a href="http://www.posy-filledpockets.com/p/blog-page.html" target="_blank">Happenings</a> page here on the blog for presentation announcements and upcoming shenanigans! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCvtPwEdEmgWlg2OqNjea4Ccrqdx6WdpnYUDRVfyxXJjZJy7aEjEb5iLigvoby6B7NxQ0MKj9bquZdO2SbTj_KNm57bYGTCfQwNQ_CzW312LKBrX7IldfWbHjWPzAVMtcpBHxUZ2W_j4/s1600/IMG_9693.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhCvtPwEdEmgWlg2OqNjea4Ccrqdx6WdpnYUDRVfyxXJjZJy7aEjEb5iLigvoby6B7NxQ0MKj9bquZdO2SbTj_KNm57bYGTCfQwNQ_CzW312LKBrX7IldfWbHjWPzAVMtcpBHxUZ2W_j4/s640/IMG_9693.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel, Marci and Tim enjoy Skye Bergen's trip around the world with corpses all dressed up for the party.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Come to our next event! We have cookies. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2-cr-mG6K1j40b2juVohhOc8s7XLQX-jsk7QuotI0VqAHGL8BhW612UuvSC7jDzKwOvMrDMMzMoeNvmncW8qAA_pX3LB846BR8tBc8r38-LQvEtZolFlafHIL9WT-ubcfY1mDiPKl_E/s1600/IMG_9687.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2-cr-mG6K1j40b2juVohhOc8s7XLQX-jsk7QuotI0VqAHGL8BhW612UuvSC7jDzKwOvMrDMMzMoeNvmncW8qAA_pX3LB846BR8tBc8r38-LQvEtZolFlafHIL9WT-ubcfY1mDiPKl_E/s640/IMG_9687.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes there are cookies. You'll never know unless you show up.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />noodlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14104350071763698320noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-26170761976575877262016-03-14T20:42:00.001-07:002016-03-14T20:43:45.319-07:00Our GoFundMe is Live! <div style="text-align: center;">
All of those fancy suits Tim wears, they aren't cheap...</div>
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<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="338" title="Click Here to donate!" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="258"><param name="movie" value="//funds.gofundme.com/Widgetflex.swf" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="flashvars" value="page=posyfilledpockets&template=1" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><embed allowScriptAccess="always" src="//funds.gofundme.com/Widgetflex.swf" quality="high" flashVars="page=posyfilledpockets&template=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="258" height="338"></embed></object></div>
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Here's what we're hoping to do with the cash. </div>
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We need our own projector. Nothing fancy, but we're currently borrowing and no one likes to be that guy. We want to be able to move our simple operation around to different venues without scrambling for parts; a projector, portable screen, remote, super cheap laptop for slides and a microphone is all we need to take this show on the road. </div>
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The mortuary is a lovely sanctuary, especially for the more serious workshops, but community and audience feedback has driven one point home consistently- some people just aren't comfortable there. Especially at night. </div>
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Also, it's a little chilly. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOKwaXqtCxIKrAx4ZzJlon4mjzAG_A5Ix1RfFSmIqCmi3gZrOvbxHvJy8JlWm4S4og2NIjDW8pWSAu270mqELgB0piiVSCuMqNaFthXyFHElnK-00Bf1-6uPV1INwZ89UZJ0qyl6rGZs/s1600/IMG_7192.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOKwaXqtCxIKrAx4ZzJlon4mjzAG_A5Ix1RfFSmIqCmi3gZrOvbxHvJy8JlWm4S4og2NIjDW8pWSAu270mqELgB0piiVSCuMqNaFthXyFHElnK-00Bf1-6uPV1INwZ89UZJ0qyl6rGZs/s640/IMG_7192.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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We strongly believe that moving the paid nightly events to a livelier (ha! get it?) venue would attract a much wider audience, which would include the people we are trying to reach the most...the ones who are uncomfortable enough with the subject to avoid our current location. (We would also like to take people on some adventures, but that's something we'll discuss a littler later...) We are looking for a new home, preferably one with a bar and indoor heating that would be a more comfortable place to invite our guests. That means initial venue costs, deposits, and some serious advertising to ensure success. </div>
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We also need shwag. Bitches love shwag. </div>
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An initial investment in some merchandise slathered with our logo to sell at shows would allow us to have a seperate cashflow to rely on outside of ticket sales. The money we make from merch and tickets goes straight into improving our shows, and more importantly, providing materials to give to participants of the free workshops. </div>
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With a wee little start up boost we are confident we will become awesomely self-sufficient with the items from our wish list. </div>
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Talking about death doesn't have to be a somber, monastic affair. Our mission is to make it easier for everyone to have that conversation, and take away some of the fear silence feeds, and lighten the burden that being unprepared creates. </div>
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This means a lot to us. It's important.</div>
PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-62959611315757849512016-02-17T19:33:00.000-08:002016-02-17T19:33:16.769-08:00Found on the Mortuary Floor<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned data-instgrm-version="6" style=" background:#FFF; border:0; border-radius:3px; box-shadow:0 0 1px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.5),0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.15); margin: 1px; max-width:658px; padding:0; width:99.375%; width:-webkit-calc(100% - 2px); width:calc(100% - 2px);"><div style="padding:8px;"> <div style=" background:#F8F8F8; line-height:0; margin-top:40px; padding:50.0% 0; text-align:center; width:100%;"> <div style=" background:url(data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAACwAAAAsCAMAAAApWqozAAAAGFBMVEUiIiI9PT0eHh4gIB4hIBkcHBwcHBwcHBydr+JQAAAACHRSTlMABA4YHyQsM5jtaMwAAADfSURBVDjL7ZVBEgMhCAQBAf//42xcNbpAqakcM0ftUmFAAIBE81IqBJdS3lS6zs3bIpB9WED3YYXFPmHRfT8sgyrCP1x8uEUxLMzNWElFOYCV6mHWWwMzdPEKHlhLw7NWJqkHc4uIZphavDzA2JPzUDsBZziNae2S6owH8xPmX8G7zzgKEOPUoYHvGz1TBCxMkd3kwNVbU0gKHkx+iZILf77IofhrY1nYFnB/lQPb79drWOyJVa/DAvg9B/rLB4cC+Nqgdz/TvBbBnr6GBReqn/nRmDgaQEej7WhonozjF+Y2I/fZou/qAAAAAElFTkSuQmCC); display:block; height:44px; margin:0 auto -44px; position:relative; top:-22px; width:44px;"></div></div> <p style=" margin:8px 0 0 0; padding:0 4px;"> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BB1NHOppF-C/" style=" color:#000; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; font-style:normal; font-weight:normal; line-height:17px; text-decoration:none; word-wrap:break-word;" target="_blank">We handed out index cards to our audience to use for the suggestion box. #DeathPositive #posyfilledpockets #suggestionbox</a></p> <p style=" color:#c9c8cd; font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px; margin-bottom:0; margin-top:8px; overflow:hidden; padding:8px 0 7px; text-align:center; text-overflow:ellipsis; white-space:nowrap;">A photo posted by Posy-Filled Pockets (@posyfilledpockets) on <time style=" font-family:Arial,sans-serif; font-size:14px; line-height:17px;" datetime="2016-02-16T03:01:58+00:00">Feb 15, 2016 at 7:01pm PST</time></p></div></blockquote>
<script async defer src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script>PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-22649090194141406712016-02-08T22:41:00.001-08:002016-02-17T11:36:10.669-08:00Upcoming Event - Death Eaters<div style="text-align: left; width: 100%;">
Join us for <a href="http://www.posy-filledpockets.com/p/blog-page.html" target="_blank">Death Eaters</a>, our second night of Posy-Filled Pockets!<br />
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Fatalities and food may seem like strange bedfellows, but the two intersect in a variety of intriguing fashions..<br />
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Rachel will introduce you to the last of the sin eaters, a historically brief but dreadful occupation consisting of ingesting the sins of others.<br />
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Jamaica is taking us back to the origins of the Last Meal, from death row to the final libations offered to French prisoners on the chopping block.<br />
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Tim is going to tell us something gross about bodies. We love it when he answers the questions we're too squeamish to ask but are dying to hear about. He totally gets us.<br />
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Then, less talking, more tasting as Amy and Skye present funeral foods and their origins as you "fake funeral crash" and sample the goods.<br />
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Ritual meals for the dead and the living, death by food in large and small doses, death-defying cuisine and things you just really, truly, shouldn't put in your mouth.<br />
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Join us as we hear a handful of surprising tales, sample funeral foods of different cultures, and toast to the life of Alan Rickman, the Deathiest Death Eater of all.<br />
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<i>Rachel James - Richard Munslow: The Last Sin Eater</i><br />
<i>Jamaica Karr - Dining with The Damned: History of Last Meals and Serial Killer Cookbooks</i><br />
<i>Tim Lilyquist - The Corpse's Last Supper: Mechanics of it All</i><br />
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<i>Presentation and Tasting:</i><br />
<i>Skye Bergen & Amy Sumner - Mourning Mastication</i><br />
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A journey through the kitchens of those left behind, with samples of funeral fare and the stories that go with them.<br />
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PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-20713863125426048312016-02-07T18:55:00.000-08:002016-02-07T18:55:57.285-08:005 Amazing Finds From Departed FriendsBURN IT. BURN IT WITH FIRE.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip362QJB4PjQssooXQgCwpm2lZI4vRk93T_nobFjfkRUqrae0w_9Mu6GxzHPidX7OX73vi7HYhmmKjbdUJMr8L1jy2hjgJR_eXjPWQD3XEZ5Y5kbfBGt1HgOOqZv6u1WrKq5PeooOjg8I/s1600/The_House_of_Leaves_-_Burning_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip362QJB4PjQssooXQgCwpm2lZI4vRk93T_nobFjfkRUqrae0w_9Mu6GxzHPidX7OX73vi7HYhmmKjbdUJMr8L1jy2hjgJR_eXjPWQD3XEZ5Y5kbfBGt1HgOOqZv6u1WrKq5PeooOjg8I/s640/The_House_of_Leaves_-_Burning_4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Need some incentive to be mindful of what you may leave behind should death unexpectedly come calling?<br />
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Here is a short but convincing list of 5 things that I have personally unearthed while taking care of a deceased loved ones earthly possessions.<br />
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1. Bad Poetry. So much of it. This is a fairly universal problem. Why don't we throw our teen angst journals away, and by throw I mean burn, and by away I mean into the firey pits of hell<br />
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2. Porn and sex toys. Obviously. Again, this is pretty much standard. Just keep in mind that your friends and family have to touch that stuff, so keep it tidy, would ya?<br />
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3. Secret lovers. Leave no evidence!<br />
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4. Secret FAMILIES. That's actually kind of a "thing" in my family. When my Grandfather died a few years ago, a safe was opened and there we were! My Grandma, my mom, my aunt Caroline, and my siblings and cousins, all 6 of us. They were very good natured about it all.<br />
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5. Money. This is not exactly a bad thing, but when you hide money, there's the assumption that you have a list of people you do or do not want having said money. However, if you hide it in small increments in every nook and cranny there's no guaranteeing who will end up with it, or how much of it for that matter. In fact, if other family members find out what you've found out-that the inheritance is hidden like some twisted Easter hunt, it could be mayhem!<br />
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Oh. I see what you did there Grandma.PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-74896828396138859182016-01-13T17:23:00.000-08:002016-01-13T17:46:12.212-08:00The Blackstar Turns Blue - Always Monsters and You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I know it's not about me.<br />
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It's not.</div>
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David Bowie's death is profound, in general. Man Who Sold the World is one of my favorite songs of all time.</div>
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Several weeks ago, I dragged myself from another disappointing surgery consult to the couch of one of the most beloved owners of my heart, a friend who feels like home-the kind of home you'd like to be in when you die. </div>
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The baby doesn't sleep well when we travel, so I hadn't gotten much more than 3 hours a night, for several nights. Finding the time and energy to feed myself had been proving too much that day, and possibly the day before. </div>
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Nevertheless, if there's anything I've learned this year, it is that my time is far more precious than I ever imagined, and should be filled with the ones I have sometimes taken for granted, because they have always loved me, always just been there. They need me, and I have never needed them more.</div>
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I tell people things, but not always the truth. "I'm okay" I say. "Things are much better!" I say. "I'm in remission, so that's good." I say. But I don't lie to him. I don't say anything. I didn't have to tell him how tired I was, or how ravaged my spirit feels. That I am lost, and scared, and running on the fumes of a lifelong vitality that always seemed bottomless. </div>
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But it isn't, it isn't. </div>
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He knows me too well, and was gentle, didn't scold or ask too much. Let me ramble, bought me tacos, let the baby tug his beard. I knew he was sad, I felt his concern, he doesn't have to tell me things either. There's nothing I can do. I care in a far-away fashion, like loving through fog. There is just me, and my children. There is my loyal love struggling to cope-I am stronger than him, on the surface, and I am drowning. If I'm no longer the anchor...</div>
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But I used to be, I used to be. </div>
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My heart-holder left the house to pick up tacos, and before he left he handed me a tablet, and told me to "watch this" while he was gone. It was a music video. I smiled, trying to remember the last time I focused on an entire video, a complete song, a single sentence uttered by someone else. He left, and I pushed play in surrender because no one has ever gotten me to sit still for this sort of thing.</div>
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But him, only him.</div>
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Blackstar began to buzz, and Lynchian music poured into the room, and I fell into a trance in the rare quiet moment to myself. I closed my eyes, felt like I was drifting too far away, then opened them and blinked. Bowie's were bandaged, he was dying. I felt that. I knew it. </div>
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Not in real life, in the song. I felt him dying. </div>
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I was sleep deprived, too comfortable, unable to stop my emotional switch from flipping, and I cried softly. Because he was dying. Because I am dying. Because it's all so beautiful and sad. I needed sleep and food, I was sinking into a surreal place....</div>
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and then UPS knocked, and the spell was broken.<br />
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And not everything is about me.</div>
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And my heart-holder came in with tacos, and we chatted, and sipped bourbon, and played with the baby until in my exhausted stupor, I lost my grip while dipping him to the floor, and while he wasn't hurt, he was scared, and cried. I was shocked, so was my companion. Our horrified eyes met and I remember, just for a moment, I remember what almost was.</div>
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But it wasn't. It isn't. </div>
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When Bowie died, I felt more than I have in a very long time. More than I did for a friend who tried to leave this world and landed in an eternal sleep instead. More than I felt for Paris, or Sandy Hook, or Amy or Lemmy. I felt sorrow like I had felt from his requiem. I felt the sorrow of my heart-holder from hours away. When he heard the news about Bowie. When he heard the news about me. I knew at that moment, long before it hit the newsfeeds, that I had witnessed Bowie's own, personal farewell to us, that I was put under a spell by a dying man. I knew it was a beautiful thing to do. I want to do it too, for the heart-holders I cherish, all of them.</div>
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And I was mournful, sunk. </div>
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David Bowie died of cancer. Not me. </div>
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I lived. I survived. </div>
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But I'm running. My mind is running, I work until I collapse, I talk so I can't listen, I create so I don't stop to observe. I'm running for my life. I'm running because if I stop I have to feel what happened to me, and what happened to my loved ones, and what could happen to my children if it catches me again. I'm running from the look on the face of my troubled partner, my gentle son, and my ever-faithful heart-holder when I woke up in the hospital and they were all around me. Their faces when it catches me again. </div>
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I didn't cry for Bowie because The Man Who Sold the World fills me with longing, or because of the gifts he bestowed. </div>
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It's not about me. </div>
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I lived, I lived. </div>
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But don't forget. </div>
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It caught a god. It can catch me. </div>
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So I run. </div>
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PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-14987805899516692152016-01-03T15:42:00.001-08:002016-01-04T11:16:43.244-08:00An Gorta Mor by guest blogger Shannon Haire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It takes a lot of suffering to be ranked among one of history’s worst tragedies and biggest losses of life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHUDOuwa8nSmcIM1cyIbcHQiCXiIKu4Kp6rGNntsyQ_Kvm6I-VvBIhHfSfA0xBSB7XWrWqFgvAFl2aBNsjUmfZ6Jx4R5ZUxaDnvGMQuXfKvjXpx5puScTp_nIpbptvFxzPTiM1v0nsao/s1600/12509023_966621046759044_527448495748887628_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTHUDOuwa8nSmcIM1cyIbcHQiCXiIKu4Kp6rGNntsyQ_Kvm6I-VvBIhHfSfA0xBSB7XWrWqFgvAFl2aBNsjUmfZ6Jx4R5ZUxaDnvGMQuXfKvjXpx5puScTp_nIpbptvFxzPTiM1v0nsao/s640/12509023_966621046759044_527448495748887628_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Shannon Haire - Used with Permission</td></tr>
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The famine that hit Ireland in 1845 has that unfortunate distinction. ‘An Gorta Mor’ (the Great Hunger) decimated the Irish population and over a five year period 1.5 million people starved to death or died of hunger-related causes. Another two million fled Ireland in order to escape that fate, and the native population hasn’t recovered since. It is estimated that there are more Irish people spread throughout the world than there are in Ireland itself, and that has been the case ever since the Great Famine began.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyORePajdzjlwWXk8PoGeeZxkgZabpSPmyQLmD8_1p-INhz93dCjapUTcteGKEnSWnbyFzTH8zjsOOOeCbvi03RRKNns3eFxw5mbxZKAm0SzYL2wfgwlCwtcTnkQ8NPBS_t_uE_WCLPvY/s1600/800px-Famine_memorial_in_Dublin_%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyORePajdzjlwWXk8PoGeeZxkgZabpSPmyQLmD8_1p-INhz93dCjapUTcteGKEnSWnbyFzTH8zjsOOOeCbvi03RRKNns3eFxw5mbxZKAm0SzYL2wfgwlCwtcTnkQ8NPBS_t_uE_WCLPvY/s640/800px-Famine_memorial_in_Dublin_%25283%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Famine_memorial_in_Dublin_(3).JPG" target="_blank">Chmee2</a></td></tr>
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Ireland is a mecca for memorials, historical places, and public sculpture, but few are as somber and potent as the Famine Memorial on the banks of the River Liffey in Dublin. The memorial sculpture was created by Rowan Gillespie and unveiled in 1997. It consists of emaciated men, women, and children trudging along the banks of the river, with various expressions of sadness, despair, and resignation. The horrifying bronze sculptures also include a starving dog walking behind the people. It is one of the most photographed public art pieces in all of Ireland.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhAbwl0YgROcoAYRdTu9whBkh_a5-JEoMHPi6VuFqqXiaZI6ZQNwigbAXUelEoLLwESpX64Y174xlJ_3asShy1Ej6jOeCeGSGajLrdk2JoisXzTUIbUhrFnNSJZjGxhJkGkeN5DVv6Wk/s1600/Surrounded_by_signs_of_economic_progress_-_the_Famine_Memorial_on_Custom_House_Quay_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1733952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhAbwl0YgROcoAYRdTu9whBkh_a5-JEoMHPi6VuFqqXiaZI6ZQNwigbAXUelEoLLwESpX64Y174xlJ_3asShy1Ej6jOeCeGSGajLrdk2JoisXzTUIbUhrFnNSJZjGxhJkGkeN5DVv6Wk/s640/Surrounded_by_signs_of_economic_progress_-_the_Famine_Memorial_on_Custom_House_Quay_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1733952.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Surrounded_by_signs_of_economic_progress_-_the_Famine_Memorial_on_Custom_House_Quay_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1733952.jpg" target="_blank">Eric Jones</a></td></tr>
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These statues are a permanent memorial to the many people who suffered and fled the Great Famine. It was built on the departure site of the Perseverance, one of the first famine ships to leave the area in 1846. The ship's captain was a seventy-four year old man who quit his office job to transport hundreds of starving people from Dublin to America. All passengers arrived safely on that maiden voyage and the Perseverance was one of the first of thousands of ships to make that desperate crossing. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Shannon Haire - Used with Permisson</td></tr>
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Rowan Gillespie’s haunting sculptures are a stark reminder of the tragic loss of life and home that the Irish people suffered and his vision captures the utter despair that millions of families were feeling during the great famine. These eerie memorial statues make it impossible to walk the banks of the river without feeling the desolate ghosts of the dead. In the water there is a replicated famine boat that doubles as one of the many famine museums located throughout Ireland. The ‘Jeanie Johnston’ is a is a fitting backdrop to the darkness of Gillespie’s pieces, and both ensure that those who visit the area will forever remember one of the biggest tragedies in Irish history.</div>
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<i><b>Shannon Haire is an Irish history blogger and author. Her newly released book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1364620677/ref=olp_product_details?ie=UTF8&me=" target="_blank">Petticoats, Patriots, and Partition</a>, is available on Amazon.com. She blogs regularly about Irish history, politics, and current events on her increasingly popular blog, <a href="https://lightandthunder.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Choosing the Green - Roghnú Glas</a></b></i><span id="goog_958764583"></span><span id="goog_958764584"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a></div>
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PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-79985442855689314422015-12-26T12:00:00.000-08:002015-12-27T22:02:03.293-08:00Art Amort: Angelique Stacey - Vanity Vehicle Memento Mori Paintings<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angelique X Stacey, Artist & Performer</td></tr>
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No one will ever accuse Angelique X Stacey of squandering her many talents. </div>
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A seasoned musician whose vocals have soared over San Francisco crowds for two decades, her eclectic repertoire flirts with several genres. Her powerful, seductive voice is accompanied by the mastery of several instruments, hand and rod and marionette puppeteering and building, modeling, tattooing, and at least a working knowledge of just about anything artistically expressive.</div>
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When skimming her diverse resume of performances and accomplishments, it's almost easy to miss what is easily one of her most compelling artistic endeavors–Commissioned Memento Mori Portraits, using the ashes of the deceased companion. </div>
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Provided with the photo of a person (or pet) that has expired as well as their cremated remains, Angelique sketches out the portrait, then recreates their likeness using acrylic or antique mortuary make-up as a media, ashes included.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZMJpK7W7KqBA4Hm4VloW6rrYTMa4_U_NN-lQ2vV4IE2M7cpEmGeBfhC4EynR1a09pvysvBM3MhJDdlDkATJxV_fLw0zhaOw59AFHhoKCduLWl9OYL0HWqyQkjEPzYbIb4Jy6olB4aqM/s1600/at+work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZMJpK7W7KqBA4Hm4VloW6rrYTMa4_U_NN-lQ2vV4IE2M7cpEmGeBfhC4EynR1a09pvysvBM3MhJDdlDkATJxV_fLw0zhaOw59AFHhoKCduLWl9OYL0HWqyQkjEPzYbIb4Jy6olB4aqM/s640/at+work.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angelique at work</td></tr>
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A firm believer in the afterlife and the spirit world, Angelique has always had a strong rapport with death. That connection deepened with the sudden passing of her best friend Heather, who Angelique has canonized on a 16x20 canvas.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3uD-ZmsKJRJptNOaHFMCRsnb9gWKq6HBzRlf4tp_jeJ8OcaQp_woi78z_tipLzL82nDDCeSRskmKasufMw1lagY1-yoJj-v_oINwVGdcqbgttCqETfIntEP7a-m-F9qOFdg-cz9Mc5o/s1600/heather+closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3uD-ZmsKJRJptNOaHFMCRsnb9gWKq6HBzRlf4tp_jeJ8OcaQp_woi78z_tipLzL82nDDCeSRskmKasufMw1lagY1-yoJj-v_oINwVGdcqbgttCqETfIntEP7a-m-F9qOFdg-cz9Mc5o/s640/heather+closeup.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small; text-align: start;">Heather Dawn Oswald. Acrylics and Antique Mortuary Makeup on Canvas 16x20</span></td></tr>
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We had questions. We had deathy questions, artsy questions, nosy questions. </div>
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<b>Tell us a little about Heather. Was she your first Memento Mori painting?</b></div>
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Heather was my best friend who died in a car accident Nov. 5th 2001. She is the first portrait painted that I have kept, but not the first to be painted. </div>
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That goes to my Uncle Charles, I painted a portrait of him for his 80th birthday and gifted it to him. He passed away soon after, a beloved Navy veteran and Mason who also work for the SFPD.</div>
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I had originally planned to start with my Aunt Pat from Glasgow, Scotland. She was the first person to contact me to let me know they were passing. This was in May of 1983. She took me to her favourite place (the London Zoo) after I rode to see her on water kelpie in a dream. She told me that she loved me and that she was there for me. About a decade later my father gave me her ashes to do a painting with. Since she was my first after death contact.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8P0oBfKxhyRN5V2yb1JxbV694yUEdMZWxeIGEWTELZE_WRYxdDoTcpwzS82evzZVPYRDAP8CmR3xet2I0_pfYsQixHykHFYvHUevHkyW0DlLWrNYu-CtNioKbbotoVuS1WTfyD1OgPxI/s1600/stucker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8P0oBfKxhyRN5V2yb1JxbV694yUEdMZWxeIGEWTELZE_WRYxdDoTcpwzS82evzZVPYRDAP8CmR3xet2I0_pfYsQixHykHFYvHUevHkyW0DlLWrNYu-CtNioKbbotoVuS1WTfyD1OgPxI/s640/stucker.jpg" width="478" /></a></div>
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<b>What do you find a portrait like this offers to the grieving? </b></div>
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I think it's a way to memorialize them, to not forget their faces or their eye colour and what they meant to me, I imagine it's the same for my clients, it's a touchstone that literally has their loved one in it.. Heather I had to paint for my own healing. I saved the makeup that I used on her for her funeral viewing. She was buried not cremated so I used the makeup and antique makeup and embalming products in her painting. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFUAjOc7bbJGZNOtBBgShU5Cq1vb1m_TIuP57QyKgcvfkceMxJd94U6yVzO-msBg_nmn4CepiDZltz_BsCBuxfSX0VkazTBmnE0m2hezUhiaPXQYray7zIS-Hws5bHcV5R0TaD__aKVM/s1600/Ashes+of+Little+Bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFUAjOc7bbJGZNOtBBgShU5Cq1vb1m_TIuP57QyKgcvfkceMxJd94U6yVzO-msBg_nmn4CepiDZltz_BsCBuxfSX0VkazTBmnE0m2hezUhiaPXQYray7zIS-Hws5bHcV5R0TaD__aKVM/s640/Ashes+of+Little+Bear.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
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<b> Is the medium difficult to work with?</b></div>
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I donated the mortuary makeup to a museum in Louisville, Kentucky. It was from the turn of the century to the 1930's so it was quite toxic. So whilst using it is wore gloves.</div>
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As far as cremains themselves, it's most gritty, dust and bone. It mixes in with most mediums. </div>
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I have been warned there are some brain diseases that can survive cremation so it is good to handle all biological material with care. Gloves, masks. Humans are ground a bit finer then say dogs so some paintings are more textured then others.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh352NQvYYy1mFWwhCb-uVLZ1wRyS4tw3ng4mbxNssmOapQ12twvcSGtXFNutgEQx-UGVCqCz_ZHXRR8APLSaOF4VQWiz8U-Z9D6Nlw6sec3nIFgLzwRK_WAswPiOQuEUicRDWIAwCaAMI/s1600/littlebear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh352NQvYYy1mFWwhCb-uVLZ1wRyS4tw3ng4mbxNssmOapQ12twvcSGtXFNutgEQx-UGVCqCz_ZHXRR8APLSaOF4VQWiz8U-Z9D6Nlw6sec3nIFgLzwRK_WAswPiOQuEUicRDWIAwCaAMI/s640/littlebear.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Furry family members get the same loving touch</td></tr>
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<b>What would you like done with your remains, and who would you trust to follow through with your wishes? How can you be contacted if someone is interested in commissioning a piece?</b></div>
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I had a will for a long time that willed different tattoos to be preserved and framed for folks but I don't have someone in place to follow out my wishes, I will write that down in my Edward Gorey "what to do when I am dead" book for my survivors. I am an organ donor so I think I will end up hopefully helping others. </div>
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If there was anything left to make a creative use of it would be an honour. Maybe some spooky memento Mori jewelry would be nice.</div>
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<b>Any takers? Where can people contact you if they would like a portrait done?</b></div>
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I can be contacted on Facebook (and all other social media under <a href="https://www.facebook.com/angelxstacy" target="_blank">Angelique X Stacy</a>) or email at angelxstacy@gmail.com</div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81wrLFpmQAGOM-va2t5SVjQCM7thduhQmssMncS3lJrEW-oi6zNJMit6shOJQuECPkVl24m-iu8HmebgKXWWLuZdznfzrkiRDgMokzPM_qpMjHkBJRZBeHcwQYXIuWChovitrN8O_ckA/s1600/Heather+Oswald+6.15.77+11.5.2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81wrLFpmQAGOM-va2t5SVjQCM7thduhQmssMncS3lJrEW-oi6zNJMit6shOJQuECPkVl24m-iu8HmebgKXWWLuZdznfzrkiRDgMokzPM_qpMjHkBJRZBeHcwQYXIuWChovitrN8O_ckA/s640/Heather+Oswald+6.15.77+11.5.2001.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Heather's portrait in the works </td></tr>
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PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-21425164372080781192015-12-09T12:35:00.000-08:002015-12-09T12:35:54.576-08:00The Environmental Impact of Funerals Illustrated by Qeepr<a href="http://www.qeepr.com/blog/environmental-impact-of-funerals/"><img alt="The Environmental Impact of Funerals" border="0" src="http://www.qeepr.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/03/Green-Burial-infographics.jpg" width=" 550" /></a>
This infographic was created by <a href="http://www.qeepr.com/blog/environmental-impact-of-funerals/">Qeepr.com</a> under a creative commons license.PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-41076199025305971392015-12-05T10:01:00.003-08:002015-12-05T10:01:44.760-08:00Whose Finger Do You Want On The Trigger? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kEZIKbByfS7_tsTMKZpni-YNbToHt3ZnhDVjyaG7GUjLIl43O5iJjPADRJc6lhwRslJXbfgHKw_RA2DornerTWhzZ-mFyF4h-nvPCq7jS-yQStRQHVxfKtc3gb8pyLDiUmGfvlphIpY/s1600/AdvanceDirective.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_kEZIKbByfS7_tsTMKZpni-YNbToHt3ZnhDVjyaG7GUjLIl43O5iJjPADRJc6lhwRslJXbfgHKw_RA2DornerTWhzZ-mFyF4h-nvPCq7jS-yQStRQHVxfKtc3gb8pyLDiUmGfvlphIpY/s640/AdvanceDirective.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I know, I know. You are far too young to be worried about this end of life stuff "death people" have been <a href="http://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/but-youre-too-young-for-that-part-2#.VmMjvt-rTq0" target="_blank">blathering on about</a>. Sure, any of us could get hit by a bus–but then who cares about an advance directive, right? You're part of the asphalt now, pal, it's a done deal.<br />
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Many people over 30 aren't stoked on being reminded that they are officially adults. They have climbed to the top of the mountain and it's all downhill from here, and that's just too depressing to think about. 40-year-olds? Don't you even start to EVEN talk about "retirement" and "menopause" and "getting affairs in order". That's for old people. That's for lawyers. You have a hot yoga class to attend, and a marathon to train for.<br /><br />You're not going anywhere...except you don't know that for sure, do you?<br />
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There's a lot of reasons why you're totally wrong, but right now we're going to focus on one, really important reason that you probably haven't thought of, or we wouldn't be having this little talk. Plenty of us are going to die young and stay pretty, regardless of how we live, or what we do. Here's what you need to ask yourself when you are dragging ass and making excuses to avoid this very simple adulting task.<br />
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<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>Whose finger to you want on the trigger if you're wrong? </b></span></div>
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Think about that. Life is messy sometimes. Families dysfunction, religion can divide, parents can be estranged, marriages fail..or, explode into bitter fiascos driven by a caustic hostility typically reserved for your first childhood bully, or the relentless meter readers of San Francisco. (I HATE THEM SO MUCH)</div>
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Times a million.<br /><br />If your shit isn't dialed and something happens? Someone that you really don't trust could be sitting in the driver's seat, making decisions about your life. Not what you do or where you go, your actual quality of, or continuing of, your LIFE. </div>
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Getting hit by a bus isn't always fatal, and sometimes things you couldn't conceive of happening happen to perfectly healthy, young, vivacious, charming, good-looking people, like getting sick. </div>
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Like me!</div>
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I had never felt motivated or overly compelled to get anything down on paper about my death wishes. Even though I'd seen with my own eyes what happens when you don't, even though I had a child, even though I had very specific instructions regarding my grandiose burial wishes. I'd get around to it, I don't need that now...I don't even know exactly what I want yet! </div>
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I will tell you this. The very moment I hung up the phone after being told that my biopsy showed invasive carcinoma at 38, the world zoomed into focus, my doubts and fears shut down, and robot-me started systematically identifying vulnerabilities and fortifying defenses. Even if cancer didn't kill me, I would be helpless for at least a little while. My finances, my children (including the one still occupying my body) and my critical decisions that I may have trouble making will all be in the hands of...</div>
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*robot-me scans for next of kin*</div>
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Oh for fucksake, no no no no! *scans again* </div>
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Yep. My estranged husband. </div>
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My very angry, vengeful, opportunistic estranged husband. </div>
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Not my parents, not my extremely capable and trusted siblings, not my solid rock of reliability that was my best friend, not my kind, loving partner and father of my (suddenly more fragile) unborn son. </div>
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A short film rolled behind my eyes. <i><b>I'm in a hospital bed, unresponsive. Something went wrong during surgery, and while I was aware of my surroundings, I couldn't speak or move. My loved ones are staring into the room through a closed door, forbidden to enter. My talented actor of a husband lovingly caressing my hand as he tells the doctors that I would want to be kept alive by any means necessary. He wipes a tear away and as the doctor leaves the room, his features harden and he stares at me, willing me to be in there, knowing. Then he leaves with no intention of ever coming back, and I am left alone in a silent prison</b></i>. <br /><br />I know that's a little dark, but hey...it totally could happen. I'm sure it HAS happened. Otherwise, where did all of those soap operas get the idea from?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You know who isn't fucking around? This guy.</td></tr>
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That my friends, is what motivation smells like–fear. What will motivate you? Will you have time, like I did, to batten down the hatches? Or will that careless bus driver punt you right into the hands of a narcissistic mother, a father you never really knew, or a flakey sibling who can't even decide on a breakfast cereal?</div>
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Mere hours after getting my diagnosis, I was filling out my advance directive, and while it added undeniable weight to the moment, it felt more safe than final. If anything happened, those I trusted the most would be on point and in place. There was less mystery, and a huge "unknown" removed from the equation. It didn't really add to the feeling of death breath on my neck, but it did help me process the practical information that yes, I actually could absolutely die. Possibly in the fairly near future. </div>
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<br />Luckily I didn't, and probably won't for a long time. Knowing that the advance directive is there still makes me feel protected, and gives me a sense of being prepared. One big life chore checked off of the list. It's alleviated fear and has given me back some control of what will happen to me should I ever find myself vulnerable like that again.<br /><br />Fucking around time is over. It's business time. Don't know where to start? Don't worry, we got you, bro. </div>
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You can start <a href="http://oag.ca.gov/sites/all/files/agweb/pdfs/consumers/ProbateCodeAdvancedHealthCareDirectiveForm-fillable.pdf" target="_blank">RIGHT NOW</a>. </div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>Posy-Filled Pockets will be holding workshops throughout the year that will provide a group setting where you can ask questions, discuss options, and fill out your paperwork with support and guidance. They will be announced on our <a href="http://www.posy-filledpockets.com/p/blog-page.html" target="_blank">Happenings</a> page here on the blog, and on our <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Posy-Filled-Pockets-435404249976444/" target="_blank">facebook</a> page. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>Watch the<a href="http://www.posy-filledpockets.com/" target="_blank"> blog</a> for information on the different advance directive options, degrees of detail different versions address, and more personal horror stories to emotionally strong-arm you into action. </b></span></div>
PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-21587254983542362822015-12-04T11:54:00.000-08:002015-12-04T13:05:31.304-08:00Art Amort: Olaf Jens <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Olaf Jens is back from the grave to capture some California lady killers.</div>
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Dj, art college drop-out, Dutch expat and current Nevada County local artist Olaf Jens spent 20 years in a booze-soaked free-for-all of Djing, touring through Europe drumming for Garage Punk bands, and basically sticking his grubby fingers in every orifice of the counter-culture's creative scene.</div>
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After moving his family to the slower pace of Northern California, he decided to pick up the skill long abandoned for the punk rock lifestyle, and his intricate, gruff sketches are gracing the covers of <a href="http://www.cryptrecords.com/" target="_blank">zombie-centric punk albums</a>, retro-creep clothing, and classing up the pages of magazines and newspapers.<br />
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Jens' most recent accomplishment is what we're dying to see. He just wrapped up the illustrations for a new true crime book by David Kulczyk, author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Death-California-Bizarre-Freakish-Curious/dp/1884995578/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Death in California: The Bizarre, Freakish and Just Curious Ways People Die in the Golden State</a>. The book is scheduled for release in 2016, and focuses on California killers of the female persuasion. Jens illustrations are portraits of the featured women, and we're waiting with bated breath.</div>
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Until then, some of his cowboy zombie skull stuff will have to do. </div>
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The images of the illustrious Olaf Jens and a regular stream of his most recent artistic undertakings can be enjoyed on his <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thevinylavenger?fref=ts" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>, or <a href="http://websta.me/n/olaf.jens" target="_blank">Instagram</a>.</div>
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<br />PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-10155843796184668552015-12-02T11:47:00.000-08:002015-12-02T11:52:39.206-08:00The 4th of July if You Like Cemetery Hilltops by Arthur Kay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIVlX9T-STg-72umqCsPHsE1nkaViKLgDaj-AvSO3QtEzaJCWTUMUApyRUz_nWep_kTGX5J-k0sQ_4eH2UAoAp9wP5kZIahWPrhJDboui-IY7cugmdnepcJos-OVDFqoZ0MqzxmioQLE/s1600/panorama-of-cemetery-view-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIVlX9T-STg-72umqCsPHsE1nkaViKLgDaj-AvSO3QtEzaJCWTUMUApyRUz_nWep_kTGX5J-k0sQ_4eH2UAoAp9wP5kZIahWPrhJDboui-IY7cugmdnepcJos-OVDFqoZ0MqzxmioQLE/s640/panorama-of-cemetery-view-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
It is a well-known secret that, although the cemetery near my home closes at sunset, they don’t enforce that rule very strictly on the 4th of July. From the hillsides up there you can see for miles and take in pretty much all of the fireworks you can handle, albeit at some distance and in a cemetery, if that’s your thing, which it is totally my thing.<br />
<br />
There are already fireworks going on by the time I get to the gate, and a bunch of empty cars parked nearby. I figure those people are probably inside, so in I go too, taking a route that will give me at least a little cover if the security folks are around and feeling feisty.<br />
<br />
Going up the first hill, and there’s a group of loud drunks by the Cogswell spire. I go wide and keep trees or monuments between me and them most of the time. If anybody is going to attract security’s attention it’s these people, and I’d rather just steer clear of them.<br />
<br />
Up past the dead millionaires, there’s a couple of short staircases that lead up further, and past those I’m climbing to the very top. Again I hear voices, but they’re quieter than the ones below. I find a pair of couples pleasantly sharing a big log near the summit. There’s also three boys standing in a tight little cluster just a ways off, taking in the view.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVmcM8tVHb8eQjIVlv3RAyWo5bjiVRum5c69vNcBSnY1C70YySMpNsokHWFCt4lTwahpjCBPKBxwayDcdINjgN4p1zHQHoWZZB0VZxE-k7BGdHtGzLuxsRSkCAjIZ77fu1_LXVHZ3AdI/s1600/creepy-mulch-piles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVmcM8tVHb8eQjIVlv3RAyWo5bjiVRum5c69vNcBSnY1C70YySMpNsokHWFCt4lTwahpjCBPKBxwayDcdINjgN4p1zHQHoWZZB0VZxE-k7BGdHtGzLuxsRSkCAjIZ77fu1_LXVHZ3AdI/s320/creepy-mulch-piles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creepy mulch piles by Arthur Kay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Last time I was here I was distracted, though not unpleasantly so. This time I am all here. I look around and find a spot. If this were a nightmare, that’s the spot where something ghastly would emerge. I go stand there and feel sort of sinister.<br />
<br />
Then, looking out over the bay, I let my senses open up.<br />
<br />
It’s dazzling. I can see displays at least down to Fremont, up to what looks like Richmond, and all across the water. The sound is like listening to a distant war zone. There are so many fireworks going off in my field of vision that it is impossible to track them all.<br />
<br />
A squirrel, with no reason to expect a human to be in the precise spot that I am in, jumps up right next to me. It sees me, makes a strangled yap of alarm, and leaps away. I have managed to terrify a squirrel.<br />
<br />
From the direction of Tiburon comes a series of huge crimson blooms, the bottoms of which appear clipped by the horizon, which is strange. I wonder if they are going off on the other side of the Marin hills. Either that, or I am seeing fireworks that are literally being set off over the ocean.<br />
<br />
The three boys lean in together and one of them is nervously flicking a lighter. They are about to smoke something that they probably didn’t pay taxes on.<br />
<br />
From south and across the bay comes a series of lights so high and so bright it looks like strobe lightning. A good five seconds after the last one goes out, the sound reaches me in a series of booms that make the dogs in the houses below me freak out in response. I am at least ten miles from where those things went off; I cannot imagine how loud it would be if you were a couple of blocks away.<br />
<br />
Some fireworks barely clear the tops of houses down in a part of Oakland where friends of mine live, the low altitude stuff people set off in their backyards. I resolve to head down from the hill soon. I have other business in the cemetery, and have been up here for about long enough.<br />
<br />
One of the boys loudly whispers “oh shit oh shit!” and another boy crouches way down, giggling and rummaging frantically through the tall grass. The boys have dropped their joint.<br />
<br />
I leave them, silently wishing them luck. I go down to the other places in the cemetery, where I expect I will be the one who is scared, and which I would rather not write about.<br />
<br />
<b><i>This story by Arthur Kay was originally published on his <a href="https://www.facebook.com/arthur.kay.94" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>, and then featured on Loren Rhoads' <a href="http://cemeterytravel.com/2015/07/06/the-4th-of-july-if-you-like-cemetery-hilltops/" target="_blank">cemeterytravel.com</a> on July 6th, 2015. It is posted here with permission. </i></b>PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-32265568520125662082015-11-30T12:18:00.001-08:002015-11-30T14:22:44.584-08:00Posy-Filled Pockets Was Meant To Be...And It Was Meant To Be HereThis is my version of the story of how PFP came to be, and why Nevada County is the perfect place for us to build this community.<br />
<br />
Last year, I brought <a href="http://www.oddsalon.com/" target="_blank">Odd Salon</a>, the SF cocktail lecture series that I co-founded along with two partners, to my weird little hometown. Once the boomingest boomtown, Grass Valley is now an adorable tourist trap in the Gold Country, a refuge for musicians, artists and eccentrics, and my favorite and least favorite place on earth. I don't really know why, I just had a feeling...this would be the perfect place.<br />
<br />
My partners thought I was nuts, but I convinced them that a pop-up would be risk-free. Worst case scenario, I would personally eat the loss. I batted my eyes and stomped my feet and lay down on the carpet illustrating how I would probably die if they said no. They agreed to humor me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMnE8Ejx4ElWlJNEg5XRmOGqo2ZSwafr4HobF9ShG6geP0w8AkpfqpKFRm5M8UIdhOisF5SkEzNk6_UciORUXiuuqOywQdwZIxGfPal4Slo0ww3IwwgiHeTVVt_LIIvPh_zlg7BMUT80/s1600/IMG_6335-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyMnE8Ejx4ElWlJNEg5XRmOGqo2ZSwafr4HobF9ShG6geP0w8AkpfqpKFRm5M8UIdhOisF5SkEzNk6_UciORUXiuuqOywQdwZIxGfPal4Slo0ww3IwwgiHeTVVt_LIIvPh_zlg7BMUT80/s640/IMG_6335-1024x768.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me, standing in front of more high school boyfriends than I care to admit.</td></tr>
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Our SF audience had been "warmed up" to "learning something weird" by previous events, and I wanted to see how it would go over with a completely cold, uninitiated audience. Does Nevada County want to drink and listen to us tell them bizarre stories? Is the flyer and Facebook invite going to be enough to pique interest in a history lecture at a bar? Is there a place for our style of educational absurdity everywhere, or was it a regional attraction?<br />
<br />
I wanted a testing ground. Since I knew I could guilt enough of my friends to attend to at least break even, I thought it would be the perfect place to experiment.<br />
<br />
We packed up and headed to the foothills with a combination of local and ringer SF speakers. After two weeks of promotion, we brought <a href="http://www.oddsalon.com/gold-murder-spirits-revisited/" target="_blank">GOLD, MURDER, & SPIRITS</a> to the Holbrooke Hotel...<br />
<br />
...and we sold out.<br />
<br />
The venue loved us and invited us back anytime. The audience was pleased, and I was rewarded for my leap of faith by enthusiastic insistence that we do it again and again. While it didn't seem feasible at the time, it was obvious that Nevada County would be a fantastic place to create a salon-inspired community project like ours.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEZlAeRazdn_Tu1cZqWM38CGkPf11Qj331x0PWxt75a9LA5Yn8yDqa4sqHpvBIXQQhelgz-vbFrP11kTG3W3UFBX35G3s6cjOIt9ZHgRqtiPlcQ9Yw_Efeywd1Nmv9erXujRQj52N8d8/s1600/IMG_6346-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEZlAeRazdn_Tu1cZqWM38CGkPf11Qj331x0PWxt75a9LA5Yn8yDqa4sqHpvBIXQQhelgz-vbFrP11kTG3W3UFBX35G3s6cjOIt9ZHgRqtiPlcQ9Yw_Efeywd1Nmv9erXujRQj52N8d8/s640/IMG_6346-1024x768.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean Sanford extrapolating on Black Bart's softer side</td></tr>
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Maybe someday.<br />
<br />
One particularly meaningful accolade came from my friend Len. Len's opinion was very important to me. He was a very serious, quiet man who didn't drink or smoke, and always had valuable practical advice, pulled no punches, and inspired the people he cared about to be their best, even if what he had to say could sting a little in the dignity department. <br />
<br />
He told me how impressed he was–he hadn't known what to expect, but he hadn't imagined a drinking-related night of intelligent discourse. (even though he could have done without the foul language) He explained how hard it was for someone like him to meet other people. Shy, sober, unable to engage in small talk or mindless chatter, this type of event could change his entire view on developing a social life. He said we really had something very special.<br />
<br />
"Glowing" isn't usually a thing I am, but I know I was.<br />
<br />
Fast forward several months later. I am giving my first <a href="http://deathsalon.org/" target="_blank">Death Salon</a> lecture on suicide, a topic very significant to me for many reasons that I'm sure will be touched upon as this project forges ahead. I was a little nervous, but I knew my subject well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlCYxy3OUkb5Z3-aLyhyphenhyphenj-qFf7tnNLmoiQ6SlwQ_b1f6tHF27WpUvlMN3q53pei4tHzrfY5S_uIQj4vDeusl5nXa88P_CHs80jeK1XuV8ulm2evNEVMENw9l4WY5sO7i1AcOhVu8dlkw/s1600/10455454_822512481122734_3262568808981894811_n_original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlCYxy3OUkb5Z3-aLyhyphenhyphenj-qFf7tnNLmoiQ6SlwQ_b1f6tHF27WpUvlMN3q53pei4tHzrfY5S_uIQj4vDeusl5nXa88P_CHs80jeK1XuV8ulm2evNEVMENw9l4WY5sO7i1AcOhVu8dlkw/s640/10455454_822512481122734_3262568808981894811_n_original.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b><i>Transcending the East vs. West Suicide Paradox: Netting the Bridge and Walling up the Volcano </i></b><i><br />"By comparing Mount Mihara and the Golden Gate Bridge, we’ll look at the conflicting ideologies surrounding suicide in Asia and the US, using these popular suicide locations and their prevention solutions in each locale as focal points to examine not only the opposing cultural attitudes, but how they are evolving from opposite sides of the philosophy spectrum and beginning to “meet in the middle” with concern and compassion."</i><br />
<br />
I did okay. Not my best, not my worst. I would have been much more prepared had I not been so distracted. I was relieved when my talk was over, and now my heart was pounding in anticipation for a fellow speaker's topic that I had previously glanced over with only a casual interest. <br />
<br />
Today, <a href="https://twitter.com/bezamerid" target="_blank">Beza Merid</a> had my full attention as he gave his death-related talk on the same podium I had just vacated. What he had to say was vitally important for me to hear now, because it was about the only thing I'd been able to think about since my OBGYN had called two days previous, leaving a kindly short voicemail with my biopsy results. Beza's talk was called <i style="font-weight: bold;">Stand-up Comedy and the Popular Culture of Cancer.</i><br />
<br />
It is the only talk I remember hearing that day, everything else was static. My bilateral mastectomy would take place a few weeks later, as soon as my pregnancy was in it's second trimester.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was a very long year.</td></tr>
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I don't really want to talk about that right now.<br />
<br />
While I was recovering, we received a call telling us that our sincere, earnest, wonderful friend Len was dead. He had taken his own life, no one knew exactly why. I still have the voicemail he left me, telling me that I had something special, and I had a duty to share it with others. I listen to it when I don't think that's true.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1coY1aYlQ7XPU6nrFzExgKz5GJx-AiKaBugErZ8xcnK9-aov5g12ofCjF2FYBQ99S9fAMsF9MJ3qqijPbH5GcS2YLzXstan75FjRzy4eS3D7acbab5l67O3d9KwRaRu-QAZiMZ7U6nqI/s1600/death_standup_cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="604" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1coY1aYlQ7XPU6nrFzExgKz5GJx-AiKaBugErZ8xcnK9-aov5g12ofCjF2FYBQ99S9fAMsF9MJ3qqijPbH5GcS2YLzXstan75FjRzy4eS3D7acbab5l67O3d9KwRaRu-QAZiMZ7U6nqI/s640/death_standup_cartoon.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whew! That was getting awkwardly heavy. Let's move on.</td></tr>
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<br />
Fast forward several months. <br /><br />I am in full remission, and have a beautiful baby boy that is perfect in every way. I have moved home to Grass Valley to be closer to my family, and slow down the breakneck pace of my life as it was in the city. I am peaceful and grateful, but I am...disappointed. I loved what I was doing. I loved my work, and I loved Odd Salon. Cancer stole a lot of things from me that I could live with, but my career, just as it was exceeding my own expectations? What the cock was that? I had worked harder than I ever had, given up so much...and it was paying off! It was crushing, to be honest.<br />
<br />It remained too awkward and painful to be said out loud. I will always be a founder, and my voice and my mark can still be seen woven into the patterns of the voices of my partners. We all pretended like I would have this triumphant return, but I knew, and I assumed they knew as well, that I could never come back.<br />
<br />
I was three hours away, had a newborn, and I was still very tired, and very affected. The salons had matured and improved in the year I was gone, and I had changed. I had spent years writing articles and telling knee-slapping stories about death and dying, but my interests had shifted, and mortality had stopped being a "story". My last talk with Odd Salon was dark. A lot darker than I intended. People stopped seeing me as vitality incarnate. <br /><br />They started seeing me as someone death had brushed by. <br />
<br />
I had never once considered that death would come around to heckle me just as I was warming up, using it as fodder. Was this some sort of cosmic joke? HAHAHAHA. Good one, universe.<br />
<br />
I was lost and unsure of where to go with my career. I still wrote for the same places I had always written for, but I missed working with other people, curating topics and interacting and sharing ideas somewhere other than spreadsheets. <br />
<br />
I had more insight into the topic of death now, too. My perspective had shifted, I was no longer gazing in through safety glass, I was all up in it, advanced directive and all. Where were my death homies? Where were my people?<br />
<br />
One day I opened up my Facebook to an invite to a local <a href="http://death%20cafe/" target="_blank">Death Cafe</a>. I had attended one in the area a year previous, and was impressed with the turnout. Even though Death Cafe tends to operate with more brevity than I'm always comfortable with, they were still my people, so off I went. That's where I met Mr. Tim Lilyquist, the mortician in charge of the event's venue, Chapel of the Angels Mortuary.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just steal these photos off of Tim's Facebook. I don't even ask. He seems fine with it.</td></tr>
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So the rest goes something like this.<br />
<br />
"Blah blah I think death is rad."<br />
<br />
"Yadda Yadda, so do I"<br />
<br />
"I'm pondering setting up a 'thing' here, kind of like a salon, but with some more variety, to appeal to a few different aspects. Like the industry! But I don't know much about the industry."<br />
<br />
"That would be so bitchin'. Hey...I know all about the industry, and I have opinions and stuff too..."<br />
<br />
"GET. OUT. OF TOWN. We should totally do a thing. We're doing a thing."<br />
<br />
So, here's our thing. The other things and their influences will be apparent, but it will be it's own unique thing. Because the thing I do now, is much different from the thing I did then, in the "before" times.<br />
<br />
I hope that Len was right, and this is something people want, maybe even need. I hope Tim can tolerate me. I hope you will want to be a part of it with us, because it's gonna be so extremely, ragingly bad ass.<br />
<br />
Len said so. He wouldn't have referred to it in such foul language, but I know that's what he meant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCkbBL2aUSX3XwZFAO2EabFT-L8MPfk_3tYfEoZVm37dw-vm8m0kD9L7rGsK7XoWvZ6z3oQYyM0rgRmXSfvF9c3TSgBXVwkb2u-e8xHZVcXFFormnvAUVdOnfaYHtbj7UgqrhlA810hU/s1600/10457878_10152562108828408_1458414029686481458_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimCkbBL2aUSX3XwZFAO2EabFT-L8MPfk_3tYfEoZVm37dw-vm8m0kD9L7rGsK7XoWvZ6z3oQYyM0rgRmXSfvF9c3TSgBXVwkb2u-e8xHZVcXFFormnvAUVdOnfaYHtbj7UgqrhlA810hU/s640/10457878_10152562108828408_1458414029686481458_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Len's memorial garden. The skull says "Godspeed Len" in fancy silver paint pen. As it should be.</td></tr>
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<br />PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-74605833431611325482015-11-22T18:24:00.000-08:002015-11-22T18:39:07.484-08:00Fuki Cafe Interviews Rachel James on Advance Directives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Rachel discusses the Death Movement, the importance of an advanced directive, and the dimensions that facing off with her own mortality added to her work.<br />
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Fuki Cafe is a web TV show with a mix of climate chaos, near term human extinction, methane release, death, and "just for beauty" art videos.</div>
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<br />PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-18738017854604309062015-11-21T23:32:00.005-08:002015-11-21T23:32:49.214-08:00From the Atlas Obscura Files<a href="http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/st-francis-dam">St. Francis Dam on Atlas Obscura</a><br />
<br />In 1928, the second-greatest loss-of-life disaster in California took 600 lives and then slipped gently into obscurity.<br />
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William Mulholland was the self-taught engineer who was responsible for the Los Angeles Water infrastructure and the construction of the Los Angeles Aqueduct. St. Francis Dam was a storage reservoir that was part of the much-disputed aqueduct, located in the San Francisquito Canyon about 40 miles north of Los Angeles proper.<br />
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Mulholland and his assistant inspected the dam and signed off on it on March 12, 1928. The dam had begun to show signs of stress, and there were a number of temperature and contraction cracks appearing, with a small amount of seeping occurring under the abutments. Concerned, Mulholland went out personally to take a look, and deemed the cracks to be of average levels and amounts for a dam of this size. 12 hours later, he was proven horribly wrong.<br />
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Two minutes before midnight on the very day Mulholland decided it was safe, St. Francis Dam collapsed. As transformers blew and 12.4 billion gallons of water barreled down the canyon, no one between the eastern canyon's drought-ridden hills and the Pacific Ocean had any idea that an inland tsunami was about to wash them away.<br />
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The dam keeper's cottage was probably first to go. Then the waters destroyed Powerhouse 2 and everyone inside. Emptying into the Santa Clara riverbed, the deadly wall of water headed for more populated ground, wiping out parts of modern-day Valencia and Newhall, crossing what is now Interstate 5 and completely washing away the town of Castaic Junction. The flood laid devastation to three more communities, Fillmore, Santa Paula, and Bardsdale, before dumping the bodies it had claimed on its journey into the Pacific. The flood waters had traveled 57 miles in 5 hours and 27 minutes.<br />
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Needless to say, Mulholland resigned, taking full responsibility, and the dam was not rebuilt. Ruins included the remains of the center of the structure, which earned the title "Tombstone". A few months after the catastrophe, an 18-year old named Lercy Parker perished when he fell from the Tombstone after a friend threw a dead rattlesnake at him as a prank. The Tombstone was demolished, and while ruins still remain, it is no more than a pile of unidentifiable rubble in a remote part of the canyon.PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-30032788164682977222015-11-21T23:21:00.000-08:002015-11-21T23:21:01.982-08:00From the Atlas Obscura Files<a href="http://www.atlasobscura.com/places/vineyard-station-trolley-tragedy">Vineyard Station Trolley Tragedy on Atlas Obscura</a><div>
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It was a balmy summer night in 1913 when the Venice Short Line Railroad loaded two of its three-car trolleys with weary Sunday beach-goers, full of fun and sun and ready to head back inland.</div>
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One train departed from Santa Monica at 8:53 P.M., the other from Venice at 8:55, both trains packed like sardines with weekend revelers. There are varying accounts of what happened next, but the end result was the same – 15 people lost their lives, and roughly 200 others were injured in a horrific accident that shook the small coastal towns of Venice and Santa Monica to their cores.</div>
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Some undisputed facts include that the first train, the 532, had stopped at the Vineyard junction, a few hundred feet shy of the station, most likely because there had been a break in the wire about 200 yards ahead. Realizing that they were parked on a curve on a downhill grade used for momentum, and that right behind them should be a non-stop special barreling around the bend at any time, the conductor rushed to the back of the train to alert the flagman, who ran down the track to signal the 874 that its path was blocked.</div>
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The is where the story gets muddled – some say the flagman didn't signal in time, others claim “hoodlums” on the rear car of the 532 began to play with the train whistle, and accidentally signaled the 874 that all was well. There are reports that the 874 just couldn't stop in time, and lax regulations on speed and timing between trains was to blame. No matter who was at fault, the results were catastrophic – The 874 slammed into the back of the stationary 532, plowing through the rear car and the 300 passengers inside.</div>
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In the wake of the collision, there was long, drawn-out chaos. Four cars were piled on top of each other, and the street lights had gone out, plunging the terrified survivors into darkness. The inaccessibility of the crash site kept rescuers from getting to the wounded for over two hours, and when they finally did reach them, they had to leave their emergency vehicles two blocks away, fight growing crowds of onlookers and desperate family members, and attempt to assess patients by candlelight.</div>
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With blame being placed on the heads of many who made mistakes, as well as policy that led to sloppy safety procedures, the officials of the Pacific Electric Railroad worked swiftly and thoroughly to ensure that the tragedy would never be repeated. After only three days, contracts to install blocking signals were drawn up, and unlike these days, when an investigation into an accident of this caliber would take years, the Vineyard Junction accident was under investigation in just 10 days.</div>
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PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1825832076919514730.post-42974843243820870252015-11-21T22:57:00.000-08:002015-11-22T18:39:18.678-08:00Hey internet...I guess I should tell you, I lost the baby<b><i>This is a personal death story that I shared online in 2012. That was the story that enlightened me to the fact that people want to feel less isolated when it came to grief. I received countless private messages about how reading about my loss helped someone to feel less alone. Some were people I was extremely close to, but had no idea they had lost a pregnancy too. In my opinion, hiding our vulnerability and sadness is a lonely choice. -R</i></b><br />
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<b>Hey internet...I guess I should tell you, I lost the baby.</b><br />
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March 16, 2012 at 9:54am<br />
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One of the downfalls of choosing to live your life openly and the compulsion to write about it is having to share the painful, gut-wrenching parts of your journeys along with the achievements and quirky anecdotes. This has never been more difficult for me than it is right now, but it's who I am, and it's who I want to be, even when being me is torturous, humiliating and sad.<br />
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Going against the classic advice of not telling people about a pregnancy until into the 2nd trimester is in direct opposition with my nature. I know very few women who actually abide by that rule anyway, although they may not announce it to the internet. This is probably wise, and while a part of me would do anything for a time machine and some discretion, I realize it wouldn't have mattered, I would have done it anyway, because the internet is where I express myself, Facebook is where I blog, and everyone knows it. How could I talk about ice cream and tortoises for a whole 4 weeks and not mention that, in other news, there was a OMG baby growing inside me!<br />
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Many years ago I went through a very dark time. My friends and family didn't hear from me, people who had been in my life for years didn't even know where I lived, no one had my phone number. I never went out and I didn't even show up for my best friend's wedding. Normally someone who had always lived loud and fast and painfully honestly, I became a ghost, in more ways than one.<br />
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The short version of that very long story is that I made a bad partner choice, and was sucked into a vicious, sick, abusive relationship that involved addiction and things I'll never speak of. I escaped that life by steeling my guts and reaching out to Sid, and my best friend, and every other person I had ever trusted in the past, even though I was scared they hated me, even though I didn't deserve their help. Once I was extracted, I swore I would never live my life in the dark again, or keep secrets from the people I loved, and who loved me. I survived by being brave enough to tell my story.<br />
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Not only did I survive, I prospered. I battled my demons, I took medication, I stopped taking medication, I went to therapy, and I did my own therapy. I fell in love with Sid all over again, became the mother I wanted to be and the friend I had never been. I decided what I wanted to do with my life, and I did it. I also decided to never live in the shadows, as a secret ever again, and to tell my story, light and dark, and I have ever since.<br />
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Some people find it naïve or narcissistic, some think I'm a fool. Others have told me they admire me, and have called me brave, and still others have wished they could live without fear of judgement like I do, even though that's far from true. I'm scared all of the time. I just feel compelled to tell my story anyway, to be a writer, and a blogger, and a village idiot and once in awhile say something to somebody else that means something.<br />
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That is why I didn't keep the pregnancy a secret. I was so god damned happy, how could I? My life finally got to a place where I could think about the things I wanted instead of needed, and being a mother again was what I wanted most of all. Not only that, Sid wanted it too! There would be no peeing on a stick and then preparing to see the terror in a guy's eyes as you hold your breath waiting to see if he would be angry and bolt, there would be hugs and kisses and pure joy! For a girl who never went to prom, or graduation, or had a sweet sixteen, or a proper wedding or honeymoon, having the man I love look into my eyes and ask if I would have his baby seemed to make up for all of those milestones in a woman's life that I seem to miss out on.<br />
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We tried for 2 years, as quietly as I do things. I mentioned it here and there, but I felt judged by some. Disapproving eyes accusing me of being too old, too poor, too crazy. Shakes of heads doubting Sid's ability to settle down, my ability to settle down, our lack of a marriage license. It put seeds of doubt in me, but I didn't let it stop me.<br />
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Then it happened. I was pregnant, two months pregnant in fact, by the time I realized it. I was doing it again and I was so happy and I cried those tears of joy and Sid held me close. After the shock wore off, we got busy coming up with names (we even decided on a girls name) coming up with ways to accommodate this new family member, getting Mars prepared to end his career as an only child, and I admit, fondling baby socks, reading all of the pregnancy books, and diligently rubbing cocoa butter on my belly with one hand while tossing pre-natal vitamins down my throat with the other.<br />
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This Monday, the 12th of March, at about 12 weeks along, I was to go in and hear my babies' heartbeat for the first time. I was so excited, I could hardly sleep the night before. I felt sorry for Sid that he didn't get to go, poor sap. I'd tell him all about it when I got home, how it sounded like a little bird heart, how it was finally real, and how cold and gross the gel was and how the exam was lame but it was all worth it, because I would finally get to hear that beautiful “whompwhomp” sound.<br />
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<i>But that's not what happened.</i><br />
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First, there was the blood. I had noticed some very light, hardly noticeable spotting, but nothing that even blipped on my radar. No spidey sense went off at all, I was blissfully sure everything was fine. My OB did not share my blind enthusiasm. In fact, she turned downright dour, and immediately pulled out the sonar wand and began searching for the heartbeat. I strained, stopped breathing, listened with all my might....and heard nothing but that empty, sonar echo. My ebullience that I'm known for, my optimism, my joy, my happiness, it all imploded right then, in those 5 minutes. Something was wrong.<br />
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The rest of the week was torture, waiting for the ultrasound, weighing the possibilities. My uterus could be tilted. The baby could be much younger than we thought, and the heartbeat undetectable. The blood? What blood? There was barely any to speak of, a vague brown tint on toilet paper. This was just a mistake. A bump in the road. A scare. I would go to the ultrasound, Sid would hold my hand, and we'd grip each other in fear until the doctor said, “There the little bugger is!” and we'd laugh and cry and hug, and then get some Thrifty's ice cream and go home.<br />
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<i>But that's not what happened either.</i><br />
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I laid on the table, and there was no place for Sid to stand near me, so he stood across the room, arms crossed and mouth covered. I stared at the screen, pretending to know what I was looking for, and the tech said, “There's the little cutie!” but then she got very quiet. She started pressing buttons and measuring and running lines across the bottom of the screen that looked very much like a sound monitor that should have been showing peaks and valleys of heart activity, but were as flat as the desert. Then she said she was very sorry, and she would send the doctor in to talk to us. The baby was dead, and possibly had been for a couple of weeks, as it had stopped growing at about 8 weeks, while its sac had continued, and was the size it should be for 13. The week it's supposedly okay to start telling people.<br />
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<i>That was yesterday.</i><br />
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Today I have go in and find out how to expel from my body what in my mind was to be a beautiful, blonde, chubby baby girl that was going to put her tiny hands on my face and smell so delightfully good in my arms. I have to back up, remember that this was not a baby yet, and was never meant to be, and is now merely a fetus that isn't viable. I have to grieve something that never existed, and abort something I desperately wanted. I'm scared, and miserable, and confused. Every single time I use the bathroom I want to punch through the mirror, just to see some blood, because, where is the blood?? There is still none to speak of. In my mind, a miscarriage was dramatic, like in the movies. I would go into the bathroom and begin to hemorrhage, scream for Sid, and he'd have to carry me to the truck with towels shoved in my crotch to stave off the copious amounts of blood as he rushed me to the ER. I guess many woman do have that experience, and it's defiantly how it is on TV.<br />
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<i>But that's not what happened to me.</i><br />
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Nothing is happening, except some brown tinted toilet paper and some cramps that my menstrual cramps would scoff at. I wouldn't even call it minor discomfort. One teeny cramp and a streak of blood and an empty, hollow sonogram echo is all I have. This was a slow, silent death, so silent, I still feel like it can't possibly be true. My heart knows it is, but where is the proof?<br />
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Today they will examine me, check my hormone levels, and give me my options, which are basically wait until it decides to leave my body and suffer through that wait and the natural process of expelling, which could leave me open to complications and infections, take a medication to move it along, or get a D&C, something I swore I would never, ever do again after doing it intentionally when I was a teenager and practically having a nervous breakdown because of it. These are my choices, and my appointment is drawing near, and I'm terrified, because to be honest, not one of them sounds like any fucking fun at all....and I still have yet to get any Thriftys ice cream out of the deal. Did I mention my active imagination? The part of my brain that is protecting me is doing it's usual-Jokes about zombabies mixed with flashes of the very real horror that is having something no longer living inside my body, refusing to leave on it's own accord.<br />
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So internet, you who I tell everything to, this is what has happened, and this is where I am. It's a dark, scary place, a miserable painful place, but I'm not alone. My boys are taking care of me, my best friend is here, and my circle of wonderful women (and a few men) have circled the wagons around me and I do not feel alone, despite the solitary nature of this experience. I am strong, we will try again, and I will eventually be fine. I'm broken into about a million pieces right now, but I've cleaned up this mess of a heart before, with the help of my wonderful friends and family. I'm telling you, because I tell you everything, and this is part of everything.<br />
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I will be writing about it more, I'd imagine, once I'm not in the thick of it. I'll be writing to give comfort to others that have gone through it, and I hope some of you who have experienced this loss will tell me your stories, to help me through it now. Just writing this has been cathartic, and kept me from sobbing and gasping like a dying animal for about an hour, which has been a nice break. Be sure, I will be talking about the D&C procedure that I am sure to be experiencing in the next day or so to remove a fetus with no heart that was never meant to be my child so that I can get my health back and take care of the beautiful child I already have. Be sure I will be talking about a bill in Wisconsin was written to outlaw the very procedure I'm facing today, and how the current reproductive rights battle effects women like me, the women the "pro-lifers" want to pretend don't exist, because we blow their "slutwhore" reasoning out of the water. Be sure I'll be talking about that when I'm not so gut-churningly sad, and I'm using my anger to propel me out of this bed.<br />
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Thank you for listening, reading, and letting me be true to myself in front of you.PosyFilledPocketshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08666448879988270418noreply@blogger.com0