"It's asking a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as your sense of the aesthetic." W. Somerset Maugham, 'Of Human Bondage', 1915 English dramatist & novelist (1874 - 1965)
"Who knows what form the forward momentum of life will take in the time ahead or what use it will make of our anguished searching. The most that any one of us can seem to do is fashion something--an object or ourselves--and drop it into the confusion, make an offering of it, so to speak, to the life force."
Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

Thursday, August 29, 2013

To the Winds His Son


I wade into the surf up to my chest, the occasional wave slapping and spraying my face.  I pour the ashes over my head letting them slide down my back and face, off my shoulders, onto my arms, into the water; some carried away on the breeze.  The empty bronze urn splashing into the sea.  My son.  I reach into the mound in my hair, grab two handfuls and angrily smear them into my face; tears and sea turning it into a paste, spilling into my mouth, wanting to absorb every last bit of Conor into my body.  My son...my son...

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