Struggling...

I've been struggling what can compact to word.

What can't compact to word is simple.

The impact of some news I've received, from last week, pertaining to my father.

He's here at home now, fortunately, albeit in hospice, at home.

My sister wrote a beautiful poem, about him.

Which I won't care to share, as it is quite personal.

But I will say this.

There's a reason cliches exist.

We often spit them off as thoughtless whimsies, sometimes to vituperate.

They exist only when we feel them, and when this happens, they become less.

Than Cliche.

My father said, the other day, worry not about the past or future.

Take each day as is.

To anyone else, that would seem obvious.

But when you're in the Charybdisean free fall of grief, you forget.

You put it in a box on a shelf to remember, but also forget.

It's only when the epiphany comes, physically, that you realize.

Taking each day as is is probably the greatest cliche ever to exist.

Cliches are the only things that make us endemic.

In a world where what seems to be is equated by what wants (to be), there is solace.

In taking things as they are, in just embodying a moment to be lost.

Without even considering it will be lost.

It's kind of like embodying energy, without thought.

This is the supreme act of life.

The red poppies Mr. DH Lawrence wrote of in his Thomas Hardy study.

Without it, we are nothing but a death, in life.

Because I have scant to share, this eve, I'm going to provide the beginning.

Of part 2 1/2 of my second novel.

I hope you like.

It's not nearly so powerful as the rest, of the book, which may just be why I share.

My weaknesses, always.

And by the by, I AM back:

PART 2 ½
When Sylvia entered a room, she was always an elephant. When she entered the living room, gazes turned, upon her risqué dress, and those heels she was trying to steady herself upon. What were they thinking? Dedrick had often wondered, that, what people really thought about his young wife.
And she was young, in many ways. But older than everyone in the room. She never knew that was part of her appeal.
She had certainly changed since they met. She was fatter, for certain. And less confident in her looks, but more confident in her art. Maybe this display was her way of showing him, and everyone, she didn’t really care, anymore.
But was it an act of desperation? Her last call before suicide? He should really keep an eye.
Sylvia shook Dr. Strattleby’s hand. Which was must larger than hers. And coarser. Mr. Forrester couldn’t help; could it be her hands were like petals guarding a bud, having not been touched by wind or rain or sustaining grief? But then she had been through so much. May it be this was a part of her that hadn’t found the storm, had instead kept it enclosed, from wind and rain and sustaining grief?
Dr. Strattleby looked over at Dedrick, and back at Sylvia. There was certainly a look of concern, from him. But flippancy, from Sylvia. Strange she should be so enamored by pseudonyms. His was obviously one, and Dedrick Forrester wasn’t really a name you’d find in the White Pages.
Mr. Forrester walked over to them, and coughed. Sylvia caught his cough, and used it as a reason to escape Dr. Strattleby’s company.
“Not so fast yet,” Mr. Forrester said, “I’d like to know what the two of you were saying.”
“To ourselves or to each other?” Sylvia said.
“To each other.”
“Well,” she said, “He was just listening to all my grievances, against you of course. Don’t’ look so dour! You know I’m kidding. Really, we were talking about personas. How people take on guises to complement their own… lack, of persona.”
“I’d disagree,” Dedrick said.
“Yes, yes, of course you would,” she said, and left the two of them in a corner, against a mirror and coat rack.