“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end.”- Gilda Radner
We make our blueprints adding room by room each small improvement and fancy that we are architects, Frank Lloyd Wrights of life, building our fortress by a green bay tree.
And it serves us well until it doesn’t. Our expectations – frail, inadequate – against a stern fate begin to crumble. That perfect ending shattered by time’s weight.
Esby held AI’s hand as they walked through the museum. She listened as Rosy expounded. “It’s interesting how culture changes.” Esby said. AI smiled and nodded her head. With a gasp, Esby stopped. “What is that?” she asked. Her companion replied, “A shoe. Rubber soled shoes, sneakers, were introduced in the late 1800’s and were fashionable into the 2000’s.” Esby shook her head. “Yes, but those strings? Did they tie them on? Every time? And so clunky! She looked at her own feet clad in form-fitting skin she peeled off every night.” How strange to have lived then, she sighed.”
Our public library renovated the old post office in town. They saved the beautiful architecture and made a lovely place to enjoy books and activities. Their staff is friendly and so helpful. By the way, the next building is a mural of books.
From their info page: Established in 1914, the Princeton Public Library has been proudly serving the community of Princeton, West Virginia, and the surrounding areas. On August 28, 2010 the library was relocated into the former Princeton United States Post Office, erected in 1935. The building was placed on the National Register of Historic Places by the United States Department of the Interior in July 2020.
Salvaged beauty, saved from ruin. Though your form is grand to behold, You are more than mortar and stone, More than plaster and wooden shelves, Or architectural detail When weighed on a supernal scale.
You are the portal to places I may never see but in my thoughts That before my awed eyes emerge like holograms of Pip or Toad or Smaug or gnome Come to life from a simple tome.
You are the doorway that beckons Come in, discover and enjoy Signings, book clubs, artists’ displays, Writers’ groups and poetry slams, Blind date with books and movies, too Stories for tots, there’s lots to do.
No longer will I deign to hear The sad refrain ‘I’m bored to tears’ From child or teen or daft adult. I will not tolerate it for There’s so many things to do At PPL and all for free.
Under a cottage cheese sky of clotted and creamy clouds cows munch on crisped hay birds swoop on seeded heads of grasses as the earth rustles in her sun-dried summery frock entreating heaven for rain.
Spiritual things have a different scale now than when I was young and in my prime. My beliefs have shrunk and expanded, the distortion has been baffling- is baffling.
For instance, what is Heaven? A literal place? A new being? Something else? Do I really want to go on eternally? Even in a body that never tires? Never gets sick? Will I sleep? Eat? Love? Make love? Will those things even matter in the light of His presence? Am I looking for one long festive of happiness and entertainment?
What happens to ennui After the first millennia? After the first megaannum?
I suspect, if Heaven is real, if we are eternal beings, if man’s interpretations are on target, I suspect, we are going to wake up after death and look around us and say, This is so much better than I ever dreamed or could have ever dreamed.
Or maybe I’ve just read way too much science fiction in my life.
Autumn of the Soul 