Veuve
Costco
…
Poppa da
bubbly!
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Veuve
Costco
…
Poppa da
bubbly!
Stone
Bone
Cone
WHIPPED HIPS
WORSHIP
WARSHIPS
The time to go has come. It should have arrived several years earlier, rather than continuing in so much wheelchair loitering, trapped in a dream-state. Now the phone call, “I don’t expect him to live another week,” leads into packing and flight.
Unable to awaken, fully, from the bewildering disconnections. This is not the heart attack or car crash I had predicted. Nor the old age of graceful evaporation into a vanishing point of history. No one will say now, “He lost his mind,” but the new names change nothing. This terminal illness, in stages, until the patient no longer remembers how to eat or breathe. Perhaps, mercifully, an angel will break through the sterile chambers of medical enterprise, and another nature will take its course.
This flesh, shrinking to bone, rather than feather.
HEARING / HE’S COME
OUT OF / HAYDN
impoverished
by an ingrained sense
of impoverishment
Satire
Satie
Sartre
…
so very French
dated
Not just musically speaking
4th CHORD
Stacked neatly
I’ve previously posted on the phenomenon of ghosts residing in homes in New England, especially, somehow, Maine.
In that vein, I’m surprised we haven’t sensed anything in the household, especially considering its age. Maybe Anna Baskerville’s good vibes should get some credit here.
But I have asked about a few of our neighbors, and they quickly told of theirs. I am surprised by the details, including a smell or two. Also, so far, they seem to be limited to one per house and do prefer to don dark clothing.
At least they seem to be benign, only sad.
Note to self: Keep asking around. It is a great conversation starter.
~*~
Here are some related facts gleaned from Harper’s Index in recent years: