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Did a plant ever speak to you from the depths of a dream?  (A dog did in mine, once)

After you’re good and dead, what do you want? Not that it’ll make any difference…probably.  But really, would you like to carry any of you into the transition?

What do you hope for after death pulls the shade on you from this side?

To remember? How we value our consciousness, our own me-ness.

Perhaps, if we re-merge with the womb…would that be progress?  Who said anything about progress?  Was it Mary Kay?

Were we meant to always be separate?  What does meant mean, anyway?

I wouldn’t opt for hell, but not to be disrespectful, feel I don’t want to be dandled on another father’s knee forever, either.

Do I really want to be alone forever?  (Just not with some people, I guess).  What a mouthful: forever!

Back to consciousness.  While I don’t want Groundhog Day every lifetime,  is it all downhill after this?  Back to the atom after Beethoven?

Do I not get a goody for not throttling my husband?  If so, what would that goody be?

I won’t care any more, they say.  I’d better let go or stay on as a ghost.

Dust to dust…”Hey! I’m in here!”

Like sleeping, they say, but no dreaming?

What do you want to dream about forever?  The past? The future? The eternal now?

In your dreams did a plant ever speak to you?

Recently I quoted someone to the effect that if you didn’t have a language how could you think.  I’ll write more about that some day, but for now my head is being flooded with thoughts–maybe a manic episode.  So many things pushing to get the limelight, to make it to paper and to Word Press.  Silly, isn’t it.  My readers they number maybe three. That’s okay if many of my  followers are commercial.  It’s getting it all out of me that counts.

For instance, I realize that the way I’m surviving a caustic world is by padding myself with Ann Perry books.  Occasionally lines float down into my consciousness from somewhere. Today it was “How Great Thou Art.”  When I was writing a poem the other day the tune “Help Me Make It Through the Night” played repeatedly on my mental victrola.

When I’m being good to myself I select memories that comfort me.  One I treasure is from a visit to my aristocratic grandparents in Chevy Chase from down home on Tremont Avenue next to the city dump in Charlotte, North Carolina.  We were at the dinner table flanked with candles and  finger bowls and my grandfather was observing that men like the Shriners were declasse–tho I’m sure he didn’t use that word–“common,”  maybe, whereupon I piped up immediately, with certainty. “Unh unh!  My uncle _____  back home is a Shriner,”  whereupon he very gently said, “Then I must be wrong.”  The love and caring behind those words still warm me.