Something less than a divine comedy

What you see before you is a work by Domenico di Michelino entitled, "Dante and the Three Kingdoms," done in 1465. It is oil on canvas and can be seen at the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Firenze. Look at the book held in the painting by Durante degli Alighieri -- more often simply called Dante. If the gods of actual art and the politically correct of infinite idiocy will forgive me, I will offer a recent translation of the words shown on the pages of that book. They seem to be a foretelling of a time in the future and read: "We are reasonably certain that Fram is somewhere on the grounds or in the building, but his present whereabouts cannot be ascertained. He seems to move around with some frequency. We will update you when we have more to report, and, rest assured, we are confident that he will not escape from here." Finally, the music. I have used this particular video a few times since beginning this blog. Boston is my favorite band. I fell in love with this song and the guitar riff the first time I heard them; I was driving on Interstate 90 from one side of southern Minnesota to the other. Claude Monet is my favorite Impressionist. Together, this mix of music and art form an insurmountable blend of sound and image.

An observation
by the Lycian prince Glaucus
in one of Homer's
timeless masterpieces:
"The Iliad"

"Why ask my lineage? Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away."

A couple of lines
spoken by Thomas Hudson

in one of Ernest Hemingway's
sort of forgotten novels:
"Islands in the Stream"

"I would rather have a good Marine, even a ruined Marine, than anything in the world when there are chips down."

"We wait always for something that does not come, he thought. But it is easier waiting with the wind than in a calm or with the capriciousness and malignancy of squalls."

Who, me?
In sort of a morbid mood, I guess

I still am into quotes .... for a while, anyway.

I have been re-reading a few books. Homer and Hemingway most recently, you might correctly surmise.

It occurred to me that I probably would have read three or four times as many books as I have if I did not re-read so many. It is a pleasant dilemma to debate within .... would it have been wiser, more beneficial, to have read more books than to have re-read so many? Well, it is an easy problem to resolve because, obviously, there is no right answer, no definitive way to resolve the question.

I also have been preoccupied with death, and looking for books which lead me in and out of that mode. Who better than Homer and Hemingway? That preoccupation comes and goes, rises and falls. I suspect it does with many people.

The latest "spell" for me began during a conversation with a neighbor about my mother's death in September 2012. Two months after her death, a man who lived kitty-corner across the street died. Two months after that, a man kitty-corner across the street in the opposite direction died. The neighbor told me he believed in the adage that death comes in threes, and he insisted these incidents proved him right. Hmmmm .... well, maybe ....

From there, my mind began to drift. My father, who I never really knew, died a few decades ago and my step-father, who was among the reasons I left home three days after I finished high school and went off to my first war, has been gone a while, too. I am an only child. I am it, in a generational sense, a fact which lurks in my id and even emerges in dreams.

Then .... then .... then, there are other deaths in other places and other times which become little different than a memory from a dream or, after a time, seem like just another winter snowfall which gradually melts away and is forever gone.

My former wife No. 2, who was given a death sentence from the clutches of inoperable cancer a few years ago, but beat it through simultaneous intense chemotherapy and intense radiation and greater will power than I could ever gather, has had a re-occurrence. The survival question is in doubt again, which means the thought never leaves my mind entirely. I can only imagine what it is doing to/in her mind.

Anyway, you never know when the reaper might come. Right?

So, I have not only had death on my mind, but I have been planning for it in both realistic and symbolic senses. Seem morbid? It seems practical to me. Death is difficult enough for family members without having to make decisions about funeral and burial details. I know that from experience.

I want to make certain that when "my time comes," all my children have to do is to call my buddy, Morrie, at the funeral home and say, launch "Plan A: Double Check My Pulse First, Please." If I happen to be out of the country when the big moment takes place, "Plan B: One-Way Economy Flight," is neatly typed, ready and waiting in the contingency drawer of Morrie's desk.

I am not kidding, although the instructions have titles considerably less colorful. All I have left undone is to pick a spot in one of five likely cemeteries, four of which have family plots. The other is sort of a military "hangout."

But, I enjoy being unpredictable. Depending upon circumstances at the time and my mood, I might emulate one of my favorite writers, Ambrose Bierce, and simply disappear .... although, unlike him, I would not vanish into Mexico. The thought has crossed my mind that it would be fascinating to end up in a place like a crevasse on the Greenland Ice Cap. That way, some day Ötzi The Iceman might be joined by Fram The Iceman and we could compare notes and exchange stories of our days and our times.

That was the realistic element. On the more fanciful side of my personality and symbolic side of my beliefs, I want to be put into the earth ready for whatever awaits. I have a list. On it, I have a few specific books I wish to accompany me in the casket, a couple of handguns, some ammunition, a Marine Corps combat knife and dog tag.

I do not wish to "depart" without a stuffed rabbit from my early childhood "who" my mother kept and "who" now has his own room in this house. His name is Blackie, by the way, earned from spending many afternoons in a sandbox.

I know what clothing I want to be wearing and what I want in the way of survival gear stuffed into the bottom of the casket. My favorite canoe paddle is on the list. I want my silver Thor's Hammer around my neck (I am still looking for a gold one, if you know where one might be purchased.), and my 1876 dime on its silver chain.

Of course, I want a bottle a brandy, a bottle of cognac and a bottle of Benedictine, as well as a box or two of cigars with plenty of old-fashioned stick matches.

I could go on, but you get my drift. I am not assuming I will require any of these items in the great beyond, but, remember, part of my work experience has been to write contingency plans for everything and anything -- and, I was most thorough at it.

I am thinking it simply makes me feel good to do these things, and it might cause an archaeologist to let out a scream of joy and happiness a few thousand years from now when "she" rips into my tomb and hits paydirt.

I know I will be wearing a smile .... like Scaramouche .... Morrie will see to that in case I am unable ....