More in the Theater of My Mind

 

It's risky but I'm going to tell it anyway.  I sat in my quiet place, my study, and invoked the imagery of the theater, about which I have previously written, only this time the "director" walked across the empty stage to a staircase going down twelve steps.  The theater was completely empty except for the director, quiet and only dimly lit (the real body was completely relaxed.)

The stairway led down to a storage room that was locked from the outside.  The key was hanging on a peg next to the door.  It is kept locked to avoid things getting out without being taken out.

The door opens into large room, lined with shelves and bins which contain scripts, pictures, and memorabilia from performances past.  Seeing it brings back sweet and bitter memories but all are accepted just the same.  It is understood that these performances are all ended, good-bad-indifferent, and even though the sets have long been stricken, the memories make up the career and life of me, the star of the show.

At the far end of this storage area is a doorway covered with a thin curtain.  Going to it I pushed it aside to find myself in a large open area; a manicured garden of trees, shrubs, and flowers even though indoors.  And floating about, like blobs in a lava lamp, were the indistinct forms of the souls of the departed who are still "at large."

I recognized some of them, names came to mind, but I didn't interact with anyone.  The experience of the storage room was still being strongly felt.  I can come back to this part of the theater any time I please to do so.  I shall, and perhaps I'll be able to interact with some of those still there.  

Meanwhile, I am still busy accepting the contents of the storage area.

  

From the Aging (Haiku)

 

My autonomy

The  value of my money

These are what I want

Take either of them

And I am marginalized

Why would you do that?

It is much easier

For me to take care of me

Than for someone else

My Friend Skip Hatfield

 

Mount Washington was, and still in many ways is, a small town in Kentucky.  William Henry Hatfield was born there 81 years ago, raised there, and lived out most of his adult life there until last Friday, when he died.  Now his earthly remains will be interred there on Monday, May 3, 2021.

He was known to the world as Skip because when his grandfather first laid eyes on him, shortly after his birth, he said, "There's my little Skipper!"  Ever after that was his name and only a few family members called him Henry, his grandfather's name.

Skip was a good human being.  He was pleasant, kind, trusting to a fault, and had extremely good eye-hand coordination, which allowed him to be good at almost any sport he tried.  He excelled in woodworking and construction; well, at most everything he did.  He was "a natural."

I knew Skip for more than 25 years, socially through the association that our wives had with Epsilon Sigma Alpha sorority.  They came over for parties often and Skip ruled the pool table.  He could play better than any of the rest of us.  Aside from the socials, we didn't see much of each other.

I have no business writing about him, other than I knew him and liked him.