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Tuesday, March 8, 2005
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On my way home
From the plane. I saw steam
venting from Mount
St. Helens on the way home this
afternoon. That was on the news on the TV's in the airport bar!
It
is good to be going home. We are planning a memorial for
my sister in the Bay Area around Easter. I am in Portland right now, at
the airport,
waiting to board my flight. I am going home.
The world has changed. My
sister is dead and I am going home. Our generation is starting to die
off. It is like in
Survivor where at one magic point the jury starts to form. One-by-one
the contestants start to move to the other side and the
balance of
power shifts from those who survive and stay with Jeff Probst, to those
that
do not. One-by-one our torches get snuffed out and we join those on the
other side until one is left. Except there is no individual immunity in
this game.
And, Candy's death was proof of this, there is no million dollar prize.
I am
on the plane now, a baby is screaming and I am going home.
On Saturday my friend Dennis
King, who was riding his bicycle, narrowly escaped death when an idiot
driving like a fool on a mountain road took a curve too fast in his
Ford pickup truck. Dennis was hurt and is home recovering, healing his
broken bones.
I am tired and am ready to go
home, trying to make
sense of it all. I am going home, my sister is already home now.
11:01:49 PM 
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Today
I am coming home.
When I think of my sister's
death and the coming memorial services, I
keep thinking of Funeral Blues, by W. H. Auden (adapted) from the movie
"Four
Weddings and a Funeral."
Stop all the clocks,
cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
~Steve
7:35:55 AM
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© Copyright 2005 Steve Sloan.
Last update: 4/4/05; 2:05:44 PM.
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