http://www.featureshoot.com/2014/09/walter-schels/
This man decided to confront his fear of death by taking pictures of patients in hospice before and after their deaths. It’s very moving.
We try not to talk about dying and I think we do ourselves a disservice by that avoidance. I believe we need to discuss allowing people ways to opt out when they feel like that is the correct thing to do. Death is inevitable and ignoring its eventuality is absurd.
I planted Jerusalem artichokes around February. Today, I noticed that they are blooming.
I’ll add a picture later when my camera has charged.
Addendum:
This is what they look like blooming. at first look, very similar to the swamp sunflowers by the shed and on the side of the house, but with different leaves and very different roots. Also, slightly different bloom times.
This is what the sunchokes look like up close.
And this is the swamp sunflowers. They are just starting to form buds.
Both plants are great to feed pollinators at the end of Summer and in the Fall. Both freeze to the ground in Winter. Both are very tall and flower heavily with yellow blossoms.
Only one will feed you.
“We are the same being in different disguises!”
My friend, Caitlyn, turned me on to this poet via Tumblr. I love both of these.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing “I Taste a Liquor
Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.”
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It’s because America
was their hometown. It’s because
God is a thing
without feathers. It’s because
God wears blue suede shoes.
—————————————————————————–
With All Due Respect
Emily Dickinson fell in love with women
And Elvis got his licks from Black folk.
Respectfully, if there is a God
(and only one God)
The fuck would It need shoes for?
If there is a Heaven, undoubtedly Emily is one of its queens
Blissfully happy
With Kate, or maybe Sue.
She is not sexless; she has desires
And now there is more than poetry she can do with them.
When she does receive company
She probably hangs out with Gertrude Stein
Sits out on the porch with Alice B. Toklas
And Sylvia Rivera.
In any idea of Heaven I care for
The music is played by anyone who loves it
But crowds flock to the people who made it
Not to the people who marketed it best
The acceptable white face (if not hips) of blues.
By the end I imagine Elvis probably just wanted to be left alone for a while anyway.
Someday he will emerge, and maybe he won’t be thin and young
Maybe he’ll still be fat and wearing that godawful jumpsuit
Because he liked jumpsuits
And nobody will care.
Because if a God is running around like some kind of heavenly bookings agent
Finding people cabins and shit to live in
If It exists
I prefer Heaven not be exclusively populated
By de-sexed bisexuals, white bluesmen,
And a God who has to wear shoes to get around.
And maybe someday their hometown will be as safe
For fat dudes in rhinestones,
Black musicians
Queer people
Poor people
Maybe even people who don’t believe in God
But not without a little more breadth of imagination
When it comes to picturing Heaven.
I am the Audience 