Pic of the day:  The Banshee, by H.M. Ram


Merriment behind me, nothing ahead.

Around me the sounds of music made by better musicians than I, around me darkness.

To my left scenes of my happy past, to my right a flower and some candles.

In front of me the caricature of a dead man who thought being good to your fellow man was a great idea, and they killed him for it.

Images of speed and beauty next to him, with words of encouragement along with the images.

Memories of days gone by, of days gone by, days gone by, gone by, gone.

Four legs and a tail sits with eyes closed and contemplates it’s universe, beautifully carnivorous thoughts dance there, and tiny fangs show.

A picture of contentment arm in arm above the four legs and a tail.

Look at it all, and wonder why I feel the way I do.

Another persons words come to mind, “Joyful participation in the suffering of the world.”

The world is suffering? The world is suffering.  The world is suffering? The world is suffering.  Participate? In Suffering?  I guess…

But I don’t mind so much, I don’t mind, I don’t, don’t.


This thing up here, this consciousness, thinks it’s running the shop. It’s a secondary organ. It’s a secondary organ of a total human being, and it must not put itself in control. It must submit and serve the humanity of the body.

Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth


It still hasn’t really sunk in for some reason.  I still go there expecting to see him, to see his smile, to hear his voice, listen to the sound of him eating, living, being.  But he is not there. Gone. Forever.  But his picture remains. Some of his other things still around.  His ball caps, his chair, his lamp.  His presence is still felt.

I don’t have tears, just confusion.  It’s not a why, not a how, but a where.  I don’t ask why is he gone.  When someone is gone they are gone and that is all.  I know how, the how is the way of all flesh, and it comes for us all in time.  But where?  I expect him to pop up, just be there, smiling, cap on, talking about heading to the store to get scratch tickets, or going to get the car cleaned, or calling Alex Rodriguez “tootie-pie” or some such.

Which is odd.  It isn’t denial, I know he’s gone.  But it was such a surreal experience, his last days, that it almost had a dream like quality to it, and I half expect to wake up from the dream and find him still here.


That’s it from here, America.  G’night.


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