Bell, book & candle .... & guns

Guns and roses. I mean guns and tulips. Well, sort of both, if you count the Guns N' Roses' song sung here by Jani Lane. These tulips faced too many thunderstorms and succumbed to an early death. Jani did, too, and drank himself to death at the ripe, old age of forty-seven. Guns and books …. and bells hidden by wolves .... and candles .... and furniture made of wood .... and singers who had a difficult time facing the thunderstorms of life and living, and who encountered early death. Well, think of this photograph as a reflection of my thoughts at the moment. Nothing more; nothing less. Except, maybe, what really is more dangerous? Guns, books, flowers, bells, wolves, candles, music, furniture made of wood .... well, think about it .... I do know the answer to the question, but I doubt that you do. By the way, if this post seems discombobulated, maybe it is you, not me .... to repeat myself, think about it ....

Drifting in Neverland & thinking of you ....

It is nice to see and to feel the burn from the sun on my body. It is not a bad burn, but enough to see and to feel.

The day has passed quietly and quickly since I said good night to you. I am not even sure what I have done other than eat a bit and read a bit and wait for time to pass.

I think I have spent my entire life waiting, but for what, I really do not know. For something? For someone? For eternity?

A few people have told me they think I am impatient while waiting for death. I am, in the sense that I am impatient to see what is around the next bend when I am canoeing on a river or who might be sitting in a restaurant or in a bar when I walk through the door or what tomorrow might bring when I go to sleep at night. I am curious to know what there is to know with each step I take.

This translates, I think, into no fear: Nothing to lose; maybe, something to gain.

I have wondered what it would be like to have been dead for a million years and to somehow be aware of it. Do you think I will ever know?

It seems pleasant to me to think of death as a long, long, endless sleep, filled with endless dreams, and periodic looks out the window to see if the sun has risen yet.

I recall I have told you before that sometimes I think I died -- was killed -- when I was in my early twenties, and that the past few decades have been but a dream. Most of my life has been a dream, I sort of believe, and I wonder what it will be after I die within this dream.

My favorite dream within a dream poem I have mentioned before, too. Quote the Raven .... whoops, I mean quote the Edgar Allan Poe:

".... You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream ...."

This has happened before. I begin a note to you, and it will end up, sooner or later, as a post on my blog. I am not sure what to make of this, but, in any case, I hope you have a pleasant day. I will see you there ....

 

Is it time to go home yet? No way, baby ....