Lurking in the sunny corners of every afternoon is the vile carnivore, death.  Whether soldiering in the dream of Vietnam’s jungle, playing the harmonica under the lamp of the night sky before driving into asphalt Hell, or making the lonely visit down the same long sterile hallway of the overly endowed home named nursing on any given morning, you have likely signed off on a mental waiver which stated, “today, only the thoughts and feelings I want are welcome” without a notary.

 ∞

What happens when you allow the forbidden to enter the Moulin Rouge?  Do the cancan dancers quit kicking, stop, and stare?  Does the brassy broad with the voice stop mid-vocal, choke up, and hang her head?  Or, is it possible, the show goes on, and  the breadth the artists fully embraced flows like magic?  The show goes off unhitched, followed with reviews raving about the glory of range and bevy of styles?

 ∞

It is said humans are the only species aware of their own mortality.  I struggle to believe this is a tragic accident.  Maybe, just maybe, this is the perfect gift, a divine suggestion.

  ∞

I hate when people behave like cowards.  I love picking scabs.  I think old ladies whose hair has turned purple need to be asked if they realize it or not.  I have felt fat ninety percent of my life and am deeply embarrassed by this because pictures reveal it is not true.  Whenever I read the word “should” I turn a deaf eye.  I believe in swearing well.  I have planned my husband’s slow death in my imagination when I found out he kissed someone while we were separated and it felt liberating (and he knows it, too.)  None of these things I have just mentioned required me to do anything.

 ∞

Reflecting in the light of the day on a breezy summer morning is the shiny champion, life.  Whether sipping champagne from the flute of a lover’s symphony, grading papers under the halo of green energy lighting the wee hours of the morning, or chasing fireflies into the night skies while skipping to the heartbeat of mother Earth, you have the freedom to choose range and fear and depth and rage and truth…right now.

∞

The day my daughter was born, I knew the opposite of death was birth.  When I lost my son to murder, I learned life endures forever.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It seems this has now become a series.  I am not sure if there will be more or not.  Currently, there are two other pieces, listed in the order they were written. Thank you, as always, for listening, and most of all, caring:

 It's Not My Place to Forgive My Son's Murderers

Vestiges of Paranoia