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Richard Meale's Funeral

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* clouds now and then giving men relief from moon viewing soon it will die yet no trace of this in the cicada's screech ailing on my travails my soul wanders over withered mores Three Haiku by Matsuo Basho (1644-1694). The snow upon my lifeless moutains Is loosened into living fountains My solid Oceans flow and sing and shine A spirit from my heart bursts forth It clothes with unexpected birth My cold bare bosom: Oh! it must be thine Oh mine, on mine! Gazing on thee I feel, I know, Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow And living shapes upon my bosom move; Music is in the sea and air, Winged clouds soar here and there, Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of: 'Tis Love, all Love! Percy Bysshe Sheely (1792-1822). Both these poems were part of funeral. Amanda Meale, with her short bleached hair and face puffy from crying, began her recollections of Richard Meale, haltingly. I would like to begin, she said, by making two corrections to a piece that appeared in the ...
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THIS IS THE END OF VOLUME TWO OF DAYS

THIS IS THE END OF VOLUME TWO OF DAYS WHICH COVERS THE YEARS FROM 2008 -2011. THANKS FOR YOUR INTEREST . VOLUME THREE TAKES AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT FORMAT, RECORDING THE EARLY AND SOMETIMES CONTROVERSIAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE BOOK THE TWILIGHT SOI AT www.daysvolumethree.blogspot.com THE FINAL STAGES OF THE BOOK'S DEVELOPMENT CAN BE FOLLOWED AT: www.thetwilightsoi.blogspot.com THE TWILIGHT SOI IS AVAILABLE AT ALL MAJOR DIGITAL OUTLETS INCLUDING AMAZON. VOLUME FOUR OF DAYS CAN BE FOUND AT: http://daysvolumefour.blogspot.com/ BY SUZANNAH ENGLISH TRANSLATION: I'm   so ,   as it is,   I   will not be   another . I   am   naive ,   I happen   -   is harmful , But   such   as it is ,   I am   in the world   alone. I'm   so ,   as it is,   I can   love . Who   sees   me ,   he   can not forget . I   know how to   caress,   but  ...
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The Slippery Slope

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* A lesson, a gesture, a story, a philosophy, an attitude—I took something from every man in Steve's bar. I was a master at “identity theft” when that crime was more benign. I became sarcastic like Cager, melodramatic like Uncle Charlie, a roughneck like Joey D. I strived to be solid like Bob the Cop, cool like Colt, and to rationalize my rage by telling myself that it was no worse than the righteous wrath of Smelly. Eventually I applied the mimicry I'd learned at Dickens to those I met outside the bar—friends, lovers, parents, bosses, even strangers. The bar fostered in me the habit of turning each person who crossed my path into a mentor, or a character, and I credit the bar, and blame it, for my becoming a reflection, or a refraction, of them all. Every regular at Steve's bar was fond of metaphors. One old bourbon drinker told me that a man's life is all a matter of mountains and caves—mountains we must climb, caves where we hide when we can't face our mountains....
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