Friday, August 01, 2008


Today tastes amazingly like the coffee at the office. It's thin and burnt and weak. And even the cream that is Friday and the beginning of a weekend doesn't help it.

Where to begin.


Part of being an adherent to the surreal is that synchronicity becomes a mantra. That's one part the protomystical claptrap pushed in The Secret gets right. When things begin coming at you in multiples, pay attention. No, PAY ATTENTION (end flaming flashing rotating 100 point font).

A couple of weeks ago, a mail buddy dropped me a postcard with her best wishes. You know, everything was fine in her world, and hoped that all was well with me. And I thought I should dig up her address and send her a note or a card . . . and that's about where it stopped. She's on my list of Random Mail Stuff To Do Real Soon Now. Because, well, everything lasts forever, right? (hint)

So yesterday, I'm reading a book that is not by a fave author (and no, I don't recommend it, so I'm not putting up the title here, let's just say I was reading it for gleanings on design theory and got an earful of scripture blatted at me, sheeplike. {No issues with scripture or those who read or practice--if you can discuss intelligently, and not just parrot back [squark] 1 Corinthians 17:1 [squark]. Uhm-hmm.} Post rebuttal of this verse to the comments, please.)

So, reading along, I thought about Ms. Chifann Mayhem. We'd been at a party last Friday to say farewell to some mutual buds who were packing up and blowing town, and I shut down shortly after the sun set. (I'm solar powered, which sucks when the sun comes up at 4:30 a.m. and my eyelids pop open with an audible * plink *.) So I boogied without saying goodbye, and felt bad about that, cause Mayhem is big on "hello goodbye I got home safe." (We were both raised in big open states where the cities are surrounded by honkin' great empty spaces. Even in the metro Salt River Valley where you have to work to find dead spaces, we call to say "got home safe" after a party.)

After thinking about her for several minutes, I realized this would do no good at all unless I told her I was thinking of her and wishing her well. And OMG, I actually whipped out my cell phone and texted her a note. Because, well, nothing lasts forever, right? (Hint)

That's a perpetual theme of one of my favorite writers, Parrie Digh. Her blog, 37 Days, was started after her father was diagnosed with cancer, and died 37 days later. Sooner or later, we all come to the last 37 days of our life. What would you want remembered? What would you do if you knew that this was it?

Ms. Digh's been celebrating the countdown to having her first book of essays (Life is a Verb) published. We're on day 34 now, and she's been asking her readers to tell the world what they would do with their last 37 days on this earth. (HINT)

So Mayhem texted me back, and we put together plans to spend some time together tomorrow, having brunch and a matinee. And I'm glad we did, because this morning Mayhem sent me a note that Boromir, Hub's dad, had passed on last night. (HINT!!!)

This wasn't unexpected. Boromir was diagnosed with a wildfire cancer late last year/early this year, and this spring he was moved to hospice care. Hub had flown out to see Boromir last week, and the question was, would Boromir be around by the time the plane landed?

Still and all, dammit. Boromir was one of the few people I chose to have in my life, and made a point of seeing when he was in town. He joined us for Grimm's when he could, and was a welcome guest.

Got it. No more taps on the head needed, thanks.

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