It’s funny — April is NATIONAL HUMOR MONTH, but soddenly I don’t feel very humorous. It’s coming down in buckets out there, and some of what’s in the buckets is making its way into my basement. I hope whoever’s praying for rain is satisfied — now how about praying for it to stop? It’s bad enough that Mother Nature keeps raining on my head when I go outside — I don’t need her to greet my feet as a dweller in my cellar when I go down in the dungeon.
‘s no use. No letup in sight. Keeps rainin’ all the time….
But am I going to let a reign of rain ruin what I’m doin’? No way! Others can be a Debbie Downer, despairing in the deluge. It’s in my Genes to be….
P.S. The title of this post is word play on a song from a hit 1956 Broadway musical later made into a movie starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. Can you name the song?
There are too many books I haven’t read, too many places I haven’t seen, too many memories I haven’t kept long enough. –Irwin Shaw, playwright, screenwriter, novelist and author of Bury The Dead
The dead have spoken….
but the living have moved on.
Hear their voices left in your mind,
keep their memories in the images
that are reborn in shared solitude.
Who among us has not known the haunting fear,
whispering we might not survive the silence?
There’s something bad in everything good: when spring comes, can spring cleaning be far behind? — Evan Esar
Spring has come, but in my sequestered domain, this doesn’t mean spring cleaning must follow. Though my closets be crammed and my drawers be loaded — make that cluttered — I’ll have no problem leaving spring cleaning far behind (even if others stink otherwise).
Now, I’m not saying that spring cleaning doesn’t have its place. For example, it might be worth the bother if you’re young and in love:
Speaking of “young love,” how old do you think the above song is? If you guessed it dates back to the ‘Golden Age’ of popular music (1920s, 30s, 40s), welcome to one of my happy places. If you’re thinking I’m clinging to the best of those romantic old songs out of naught but nostalgia, nothing could be further from the youth — my guileless youth that Father Time gradually re-placed. But suppose the mature me were unable to relate to the ever-young work of, say, Twain, Stevenson and Swift — it wouldn’t be that their writing has become outdated. I would simply have lost the capacity to appreciate its timelessness.
In like manner, whether it be seen as ‘gilding the lily’ of youth or burnishing the harmony of maturity, I still think of the oldies as younger than springtime….and on that note, I’ll tune out:
It is easier to buy books than to read them, and easier to read them than to absorb them. –William Osler
Well, I done done it again: done went traipsin’ off to another bargain book sale at the local library, and done ended up taking home more cheapo tomes than Trump takes ego trips. How many books do I own? I stopped counting around 720 (which, by the way, was a very good year, so I hear). Let’s just say that if all the books I’ve accumulated were people, they’d be so crammed together that they’d be begging for as much space, in relative terms, as tin-packed sardines have (not that I’d want space for relatives — my house ain’t no hostel for visiting bedlamites). My books, on the other hand, deserve more space because they’re doomed to wait longer than sardines for me to ‘digest’ them all — like until there’s peace on earth or Goodwill in store for my boatload of books after I sale off into the sunset.
Anyway, the end result of all this trumpery is to take another ‘skip-a-post to read-the-most’ books I can — like the break I decided to take two months ago after I brought home my last used book bonanza. I’ll be back Feb. 15, more bleary-eyed but less behind (or, if you like, less in arrears) in books to read….Lord willin’ and the library don’t have another sale.
You will (hopefully) recall that my last post, STONE COLD DEAD, featured some of my favorite epitaphs published 4 years ago on SWI (a blog due to bite the dust in November). Ah, but the best laid plans…. The SWI editor announced on 9/1 that he would now need to pull the plug first thing on Sept. 6; thus today becomes SWI’s last full day on this earth.
This sudden passing prompts me to salvage another of my previously published posts from that body of work: a poem which poses a question I believe naturally arises out of STONE COLD DEAD. Unlike that post, it ain’t funny, but perhaps the poem’s saving grace is that what it lacks in humor, it makes up in brevity. It’s the least I can do on Labor Day.
Are the faithful
dead better positioned
to be saved
than those who
lived with doubt?
Even a God
can’t help being
what He thinks.