Hey Bud

Stay with me, please. Eighteen years of clash, comfort, purr-ball, heart, impatience, perfection does not evaporate with the physical absence of you, Spike. I see you still. I feel you near. My heart holds you as tight as ever. Wishing you bliss, as light as light as light as light.

Nobility of spirit, my Bud.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross Was Wrong

I always suspected it, especially considering the pathetic last years of her life. After many recent losses, I am inclined to believe we are hard-wired to move on, to absorb grief, to grow stronger because of it. I love this article.

PERFECT VooDoo

"Something very real is happening. Americans today are hungry for spiritual fulfillment, and voodoo offers a direct experience with the sacred that appeals to more and more people. This is especially visible in New Orleans, which has always been a center of those beliefs. Marie Laveau rules the imagination of this city. People think about her, see her, have visions of her, dream about her, talk to her. I know because these people are showing up on my doorstep almost every day."
Martha Ward, author of The Voodoo Queen

15 Minutes

Please God, give me a reason to live for the next fifteen minutes.
William James





Beautiful World
by Grandma Moses

Immortal Soul

Harry Houdini, RIP

At Houdini's funeral:
The St. Cecile Lodge of Masons and the Society of American Magicians formed squares in turn about the bier. Tribute was read and “Beautiful Isle of Somewhere” sung. Then a white lambskin was laid upon the bier and each Mason filed by and dropped a bit of evergreen, emblematical of the immortality of the soul.
The New York Times, 1926

Live or Let Die

Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.
Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: as waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking candle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats