Posted by denelle
If I were to try to do something beyond the grave, it wouldn’t be fishing. It would be something I love, like having sex, or watching Twilight Zones, or trying to eat other people’s food even though I’m dead and I really can’t enjoy the flavors anymore. Fishing isn’t really my thing. But apparently there is someone on my morning walk who is still trying to get his fly on.
Last year I noticed a fishing line, draped passionately over a telephone wire. Of course, if you are the average, boxed-in type thinker, you will just assume someone got their line caught while casting off. I’m sure that is frustrating. I, however, immediately thought that someone had been called away to heaven, and despite the happiness one might have when realizing you are going UP instead of the other direction, this recently vacanted being wanted to hang on to his fishing pole and get in one last catch.
It seems he was successful in convincing the authorities that he should stay around a little bit longer, and guard the waters, or continue plucking fishies from their homes, whichever he is capable of in his newly ghostly state. I’m calling him Fisherman Bill. Here are some shots of him I think you’ll like:
Posted by denelle
Today I am a ghost.
I’ve realized this after writing an earlier blog (see below) and also talking to my sis.
My ghost girl first showed up when I was about five. I guess I could have been four, or maybe even three, I don’t know for sure. We lived in the same apartments for maybe three years when I was that age, so the exact date is uncertain.
When the ghost first popped out I was in the laundry room. My mother was doing laundry, and it was a pretty good sized facility, with lots of washers and dryers, and windows at one side of the building. And the washers and dryers were all in the center of the room, leaving plenty of room to walk about, fold your clothes, sit and read a magazine. I was running around one day, and ran and ran around the washers. Like I was chasing something, or trying to run from a friend or sibling. Or maybe I’d just had to much sugary cereal.
But there I was, running around in the laundry room; only I was really way up in the ceiling looking down. Something had happened and part of me split out of the body. And this part looked down at the child running around in circles, and said, “This isn’t me”. This part felt sort of angelic, or ethereal, and looked down at the running child and thought of her as a puppet; a dolly. “How is it that this dolly runs around when there is no one inside her?” the ghost wondered? “It’s like she’s just a rag flitting around, with nothing to tell her how to move or where to go”. But the child kept running.
The angel person felt funny. It seemed somehow she was connected to the running dolly, but she couldn’t see how exactly. It didn’t feel like someone she knew; it felt like a puppet, far away and impersonal. It didn’t feel like it was the angel’s body; the angel was way up in the ceiling, looking down at the puppet-child with curiosity, and a little disdain. Anyway, the angel didn’t think she belonged in a body. She was pretty sure that she was connected to the running puppet, but it didn’t seem right for her to be in the body. It seemed like it didn’t belong to her. The angel thought maybe she had somehow done something horrible and stolen this body that really belonged to someone else, apparently the puppet child. Clearly it didn’t come with her in it, because angels don’t have bodies, so how was she connected to it? Eventually the angel realized she must not really be an angel, because angels don’t do bad things like steal bodies from little children so they can inhabit them for their own selves. So the angel de-winged herself and decided she must just be a ghost. Because she didn’t have much in the way of emotions. And she didn’t feel like that body fit her very well. And she didn’t seem to feel like anyone could see her or recognize that she was there. Plus she was way up here on the ceiling, and no one else was doing that except ghosts.
So the ghost girl was created.
And she is invisible, and far away, and empty.
She hangs on to the puppet child, and won’t let go, but is kind of empty about it, in a dead, ghosty kind of way.
She likes to fly out of the body altogether, and sail over houses in search of somewhere that sells Slurpees.
And she isn’t sure what to do with herself, or why she is around.
But she’s been there almost from the beginning,
just … there.