You are alone. No one will understand.

No one will ever know what you have done

Or ever read a word that you have written.

When you are gone, your work will be forgotten

And every sign that you have lived will fade.

I say: Hmmm. Let me think. Yep,

That sounds right. I expect nothing

Less than complete oblivion. In fact, I’m

Counting on it. My work is mine, not yours.

Ha ha. So there. The world pauses, thinking.

Then says.  Hmmm. Perhaps I was too hasty.

I say: Available through your local bookstore.

I wrote this last year:

"Well, I made it to 65. I am grateful for the experiences along the way, especially the ones that ended up as stories, or may yet. So grateful also to the family and friends here and gone who made it such a rich unforgettable (I hope) journey.

When I started typing this, 65 came out as ^%; as I had the caps lock on. That may be a sign of the coming times, and yet appropriate; I plan to live life like the cap lock is on from now on. SO MAY WE ALL."

Most of us had no idea what 2020 had in store for the world, the human world anyway. My life, or the living of it, didn't work out as I planned, the CAP LOCK lock did not go on as I had enisioned it. But then that is true of most of my life, and maybe most of life. 

There is a tree across the way from me. It has a double trunk, split in two almost at the ground. One tree or two, I don't know. An oak or something else solid and strong. 

The right trunk is maybe forty feet tall, and leaves are just starting to bud. The other goes up thirty feet or so, where the trunk is twisted, and tapers almost to a point.  A tornado maybe came close and wrenched off the top. But I had not noticed until today that out of that ragged ending, slender branches reached a good ways, buds perched on the ends, just as with its twin. 

It reminded me of a time I was driving through Yellowstone, a year to two after fires had ravaged a third of the park. Beneath the blackened remnants of the pines, saplings beyond count had thrust up through the charcoal earth. Most were only inches high. But the forest was healing itself. I wrote this:

Seek the path
Of vital devastation.
In the white pines,
Spring forward.

So may we all, cap locks or no.

Recently, I subscribed to an internet program that is supposed to help with relaxation and meditation, using images of nature accompanied by peaceful music. Lots of flutes. I like to listen while I work; it cuts the silences of working from home.

I was reading one day, listening, glancing up occasionally to see what beautiful thing was on. Suddenly I felt sad, but I wasn’t sure why.  After a while, I realized that I was sad because I would never actually see the beautiful things that were on the screen. Except on a screen. I may never visit a beach in Thailand at sunset, or the Alps at sunrise. Because of time. Because of distance. Because of money. Because of age or health. It is world of beautiful things but our time here is short and for most of us our resources are limited.

And then I thought, yet here I am now seeing these things on television at least. That is seeing of a kind. Some of them I might have guessed at their existence. But many I would likely never have known about, except for this seeing. And if the images in this program are beautiful, there are many more beautiful images, stunning and extraordinary and strange, shown on TV and the Internet these days, on channels dedicated to them.

And not just natural beauty. Art is more accessible than ever before. Major museums are putting images of masterpieces within the reach of everyone at a click or two. And music also. Sites stream Bach and Mozart, Schubert and Prokofiev (my personal favorite), and so many more, many I have never heard of. Fifty years ago― no make that one hundred years ago, I forget how old I am―you would have had to attend a concert in Oslo or Vienna or New York to hear them.

This is a miraculous age of beautiful things, offered to us wherever we turn. I’m sure that they are more beautiful to experience in person. I would rather see them from a concert in Oslo, an evening at the Met in New York, or flying over the Alps at sunrise (okay, I might have to close my eyes at that one).

But even in seeing them in this removed way, they are still beautiful. And I can see more of them this way than I could possibly see in a lifetime. That’s a gift, and something to be grateful for.

This is a wordcloud for my book Funny Thing Is: A Guide to Understanding Comedy. 

“A perceptive dissection of the science and philosophy of comedy and comedic writing…one with a heartfelt message”. —Foreword Clarion Reviews

“Anyone who wonders at what makes us laugh is certain to enjoy Funny Thing Is.” —BlueInk Review

If you're curious, click your heels three times and say "Funny Thing Is".  Or you could just click the picture. Though if you did click your heels three times and say "Funny Thing Is", you're definitely curious (I would know).