I am getting ready to take down all the posts currently on view here, something I’ve done three times before. Donkeywork may or may not have a fourth life after this; writing for nobody and receiving no feedback takes its toll after a while. And despite the lack of readership, I was deeply conflicted about leaving up anything about my father immediately after his death. My duties as his caregiver took me through the full spectrum of difficulties one might find in a Farrely Brothers/Judd Apatow collaboration. Body fluids aplenty, but there was also grave illness, loss of dignity and then death, none of which were all that hilarious. I had nobody to talk to about this while it was happening, except for five minutes here and there, and never with anyone who understood what it was like…so I just wrote it all down and threw it all up online. I ultimately decided not to go back and edit the more angry/unkind of those posts because they were honest, if not a complete portrait of life with my dad. I mean, I hated living with him. Taking care of him and watching him die are things I have yet to get over, but I also miss him every day and am haunted by how little I was actually able to do to keep him comfortable while he was so sick. Removing a bunch of unread blog posts doesn’t make a difference in the larger scheme, but I want to take down all my grand pronouncements of upset and hate, and see if I can let go of the energy behind them. Here’s hoping, and next time if you read the damn thing leave a comment!

One of the first things I told myself when I moved into this trailer was, “You need to honor your parents this year. Do something for Dia de los Muertos.” There’s a space near the front steps that seemed to have potential, and I filed the idea away, then returned to it once in a while. It wasn’t stressful then because in August Halloween seems like a date that will never arrive. Then suddenly it was October 20th. My dad’s birthday had been on the 17th, and I was routinely losing my shit and crying uncontrollably for literally hours at a stretch. I would go get an old flannel shirt of my mom’s that might be good to cover the table with, and just end up on the floor in a pile, holding the shirt.

It didn’t seem like I was going to be stable enough to git ‘er done, and I was finding lots and lots of excuses to support my idiocy. For starters, nobody in Ukiah sells Pink Popcorn anymore, and I wanted to have a brick of it for my mom; she loved the stuff. Well, if I couldn’t cater it right, it’s not like their spirits would show up, so why bother? And I had it in the back of my mind to have cigarettes, but they’re too expensive…and then I thought my parents were probably observing me thinking that, and that they were not only going to come back but haunt me right into a myocardial infarction. So, okay. I’m crazy. I can’t get a brick of popcorn, and  no place here sells looseys. Maybe this isn’t the best use of my time.

There was another aspect of this project that was weird for me to chew over. It would require some planning and effort and maintenance…and nobody but me was going to see it. When your life is resource-poor it’s really hard to summon creative energy to begin with. Making things that go unseen from that closed-loop brainspace begins to feel downright creepy. I can say this with some authority, having just dismantled an island that took up one-third of my living room floor space, featuring a crocheted border, origami horses and donkeys, ships and windmills, some weird puns written on business cards, postage stamps and a post-it from my recent mail, and strings, wire and twist-ties all vaguely chain-stitched into loops. It started off small, then became bonkers and all-consuming, and then it was taken away and recycled. No witnesses. So what was it?

And what would this altar be? Would it matter if it went unviewed? Why should that matter? I don’t think of anything I make as “art”; my primary motivation in making things is proving how good I am at following directions, not conceiving and executing something the world has not yet seen. Also, all my recent experience has revolved around weeping and sleeping. It rhymes, but you don’t see me writing a song about it. Yet I do have a desire to share stuff in some form. Back in the day it was ‘zines; now I write a blog, which goes largely unseen and frequently feels like a waste of time. Was taking the time to put together an altar going to be another investment in nothingness?

As it turns out, yes! And it was worth it. On Halloween, in the afternoon, I pulled together some supplies and piled them by the door. I wrote letters to my parents, both as a couple and to each of them individually, asking questions, thanking them for specific things and making some overdue apologies. Then I once again cried so hard I nearly turned inside-out. The next day I was happy to run around and pull my hair for a few hours, but when the time came I got out there, cleaned up the space and set things up. I’d bought four bags of candy and opened my gate, and not one damn Trick-or-Treater showed up, so I put out some candy. Candles, incense, a buddha for my dad as well as a Marine Corps pendant. For my mom, a New York Times Sunday crossword and pen. Lots of marigolds and geraniums. Pictures of my parents, our old backyard in Cazadero, and our cat. A compass to help them find me, and a skeleton key so they could come in if I was sleeping. All I could really see was what was wrong or lopsided or missing from it…but when I left to do errands and came back, it actually looked pretty good. I left it up for two days, then took it down to avoid any intimate questions or sympathetic hugs that go on too long from my landlord. But I did take a picture. And I have to say, I thought the experience would be controlled by me, and really just be a chance to reflect on my parents in a structured way. It turned out to be much more intimate–truly like a visit–and actually a little scary for wussy me. But I would, and will, do it again, no matter who might or might not see.