70 years ago, people invented washing machines.
Around the same time, they invented the Ultimate Weapon,
manufactured enough of them to exterminate life, retired to the
suburbs in peace, died, and left us with them.
And those washing machines still work.
Avoiding Farewell by Li Po (742)
Breezes filling the inn with willow-blossom scents,
elegant girls serve wine, enticing us to try it.
Friends come to see me off, I try to leave
but cannot, so we linger out another cup together.
I can’t tell anymore. Which is long and which is short,
the river flowing east or thoughts farewell brings on?
From “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” by Walt Whitman (1856)
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refreshed by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refreshed,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood yet was hurried.
With Freddie (October 24, 2020)
This is his day, when we linger with him, a perfect Midwestern goodbye.
Even after this, we’ll stand out on the front lawn together.
And it won’t be time yet to go.
There will be plenty of fallen leaves to smell in the wind.
And we’ll take the customary chance to speak something of it.
We can always smile a bit more thinking about the great rivers that refreshed him.
And we’ll let time be the one to carry us away.
My dad was the youngest in his family
and the black sheep
My mom was the youngest in her family
and the black sheep
They had me and my brother,
who was the youngest in our family
and the black sheep
I married a beautiful, compelling woman,
older than me,
but the youngest in her family,
the black sheep
And it’s just some days I’m tired,
understanding, but tired of being
the big brother
Notre Dame Cathedral is more than a religious building. It’s more than an architectural wonder. More than Catholics and architects are crying today.
It’s a great thing that people toiled to build, people long since gone who left this magnificent creation. And together people determined to see it survive, improbably, down though the ages.
But it won’t survive our age.
When I die,
bring my ashes to a place you think I’ll like,
somewhere worth a return.
After you’ve sprung me to my repose,
read me "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" (1881)
and play Louis Armstrong's "La Vie En Rose."
Think on them for a spell,
then depart into the day.