Not bulletproof

Happy Birthday, Caroline Top.  You might’ve been 34 today.

I am in a place of darkness and loneliness, in which I ponder the days of my youth, when things seemed so simple.  All I ever wanted was to travel, read, write, meet interesting people, live a quiet life void of material things that would tie me down and keep me enslaved with labor for the rest of my life.  Illness/incapacitation is never considered in those youthful ideals.  Actually, I always thought I’d die rockclimbing, or drowning, or by possibly eating a rogue mushroom or mollusk.  I may just die from thinking about death – mine and everyone else’s.

Every year I come to this – as Mary Oliver’s poem says – the river of loss.  I don’t mind becoming attached to people I’ve only met through this evil disease.  We share an understanding and within that, the force of beauty and bonding seems so much more intense.  But then they die, it’s Groundhog Day, I’m crushed.  My pile of memory rocks and prayer ribbons grow.  Tokens of sadness and survival.  Every year it’s one or two or three… Perhaps its all emotional projections, but they say that’s all heaven is…

The circle game continues, in all its wonder and glory.

The only relief I can seem to find is through music and silly, funny movies.  Pass the morphine, pass the popcorn, I’ll salt it with my tears.

London’s calling…


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