I have this…thing…for mythological females. Had it since I was a kid. Not *all* mythological females, mind you. Specific ones. Special ones…
You could probably run a full-scope Psychological profile on me based solely on the questions I could answer about certain goddesses, devas, heroines, and demonesses. I know I have a problem. I’m not denying anything.
From Inanna to Neith to Parvati to Marishiten to Brigantia to Athena to Minerva to Menrva. There’s a pattern. You’ll see it, if you look; seek.
Memorial Day, to me, is like Valentine’s Day, or Halloween. I do not need an excuse to remember the Fallen, show my love to whomever, or dress in a costume. I’ll do that shit anytime, anywhere. (And *do*…it gets weird. Especially when it all aligns and happens at the same time.)
But we, as a species, have ritual in order to satisfy Psycho-emotional stimulae. Same reason I am attracted to so many hot god-women. Voids. Gaps. Holes that need to be filled. Broken sequences. Empty spaces in photos. Fewer friends seated at tables where we drink and laugh. Black places in my mind and heart where there used to be someone I know.
So, this day is about ritual, for me. Not only remembrance. I remember you crazy fuckers every day. (I don’t have chocolates or a costume today, though. Just my customary ritual bottles of memory.)
And it’s not just the holes in *my* heart that I try to fill. It’s all the holes. In all the hearts.
*We* have chosen to be and do what others are either unable or unwilling to be and do. No biggie. But not all of us have made it here, to this day. And I’m not gonna bend your ear over shit like honor and loyalty and sacrifice, and all that high-side bullshit. I’m here in the dirt, missing the simple human shit like laughter, being stupid drunk, having to bring you fucking toilet paper because you fucking forgot it, stringing up a hooch, correcting your spelling mistakes in your letters home, telling you your boots look like someone shit on them, quoting movies as trivia just to stay awake. Fucking *knowing* you–a thing that does not happen often in daily life.
Skuld. My ritual on this day is to fill those empty openings of laughter and kinship with as much Skuld as my system can take. 3 parts mead, 1 part Whiskey (or Whisky, if you like peat). Skuld. A drink for absent friends. Not lost ones. Just… not here now.
You see, to me, they can’t be lost because they put their feet on this path. Death is just a tertiary eventuality in an otherwise reasonably boring as fuck lifestyle. And let’s face it, we’re all gonna get there one day anyway… and it ain’t always gonna include explosions and permanent hearing loss, it is? How fucking cool is that?
Skuld was a Norn. The youngest of the three. The brashest. Her name means “fate” or “debt.” As in, our fate is a debt to even an equation. And it is. (I believe.) She was also a Valkyrie. A chooser of the slain, who would OPCON dead pipe hitters to Odin’s Einherar… and drink like newbie Freshmen until Ragnarok.
She gets this shit.
So, as I mix this drink–her drink–over and over and over today, I remember everything. All of it. And I balance that with the fact that as intelligent responsible adult Homo Sapiens we chose to do what we do. Or… if we didn’t choose, we were certainly solid enough to roll with it. And although we all end up in the same worm-feast box, *your* laughter is what I miss. *Your* being here. *Your* contribution to the delinquency.
All of it.
Your being dead is an afterthought–a funny one, sometimes, because I have a sick as fuck sense of humor. The cause, of course, to the effect of you not being here drying up these bottles with me. But I certainly, at this point, don’t give a shit about your sacrifice. I’m a selfish creature. Hopefully you are chillin’ in Elysium, playin’ harps in Heaven, bonin’ down with your virgins (that sounds like work), drinking mead in Valhalla, or naked on a beach in Costa Rica–or all of ’em.
But you are not here. Not now. And I miss you.
So. I drink. And ritualize to fill those holes.
Sorry I’m late to the rally point. Your boots still look like someone shit on them.
Featured image courtesy of DoD