At what price, peace.

It's a hard beauty when your dreams are more real than days.

Last night I had to pre-live the duty of scattering my father's ashes. This could be a thing of romanticized poetic anguish and grey beauty.

Betsy's funeral had that element. It was windy and grey and stunningly beautiful, and it all moved it slow motion; Annie out in the surf with the ashes being claimed by the wind in broad arcs; The wind and sea birds filling in for the gothic underscore. I would hope that we did her proud (she did have so many victorian-gothic day dreams;)

... back to last night-What made it really hard was when I was about to set about my duty, you showed up and offered to be by my side the whole time. I wanted this very much, but as I've discussed just last night, in the waking , you are devoid of the loyal warmth you offer in dreamtime.

and yet, I accept your offer, likely submerging myself into another week of confusion.

A pale irony,
dreams - warmth, comfort , beauty
manifest cold. real.