Brian King, friend and fellow writer, is dead at 25. The last two and a half of those years he lived out in the open -- well, as openly as he could, the global pandemic raging all around.
I stood in as Sherpa the day we exfiltrated Brian from Alabama. The weather was dark and harrowing; a deluge of rain nearly forced us to stop.
Then suddenly, this moment, glimpse of the Sublime:
Et lux aeterna . . .
“I imagine this weekend for you must be kinda like the big pause before diving into a swimming pool or ripping off a bandaid.
I’ve never imagined myself in that role . . . closest I’ve ever come might’ve been taking my friend H to the DMV to get her driver’s license.”
“A celebratory cocktail flavored with the enormous satisfaction of
loved ones achieving a major milestone, taken with a gut-punch chaser of generalized anxiety. …
as promised . . .
Deep in the woods
beneath the blue sky
a great Oak tree grew in his home,
by a bend in the creek,
gently swaying all week
in the Wind, and yet sadly alone.
Underneath the same sky
lived a beautiful Vine
far away, near the sand and the sea.
The Wind and the waves
filled her balmiest days,
and yet by herself also was she.
As acorn and seed
the two had once known
one another in earlier days.
But the Great Wind of life,
full of joys and of strife,
Left them far apart
‘neath the sun’s rays.
Here is the wedding cake we made yesterday for the wedding (today) of my friends Eddie Hostetler and Carolyn Dienes.
There will be only five (5) of us gathered in person, including the bride & groom, the Matron of Honor (the groom’s 88-year-old mother Hilda) and my friend Garnet who will officiate.
I have written a new poem for the occasion which I will post later, along with the recipe for the Italian Wedding Cake pictured above.
I would also like to invite all of my Medium friends to join the ceremony virtually if you are interested and able. …
bits and pieces for your Thanksgiving enjoyment . . .
Oh Thanksgiving Day,
a feast most equivocal.
How like us you are.
“Thanksgiving is an emotional holiday. People travel thousands of miles to be with people they only see once a year. And then discover once a year is way too often.” — Johnny Carson
Sister Bettina rapped the cedar door with soft cork handle of her cane. “Awaken . . . Sister, get up!”
The plump young novitiate awakened in a start. Exhausted from the fitful labor of elusive slumber, she fumbled for her leather clogs in the pre-dawn chill. One terror alone was worse than the ones visited upon her during her brief slumber — that punishment Mother Superior would fashion (specifically to suit her) should Dolores arrive once again late for lauds.
Oh dear, oh dear!
The faint peal of the abbey bell rang out, somewhat muted by distance…