Life, death, and itty bitty pith helmets
The moon over White Rock Lake was quite fabulous last night after Fred Curchack's one-man play at the Bath House Cultural Center. Dang if the play wasn't about life, death, generations, words, and our sense of self.
Dad is not wearing his pith helmet. Still in his hospital gown, he is refusing to get out of bed. This would seem right if he was just protesting the end of spring break. Alas, it is a larger comment on mortality, the weekend staff, over-grown nose hairs, and self-determination.
One of the stand-out reviews read in March issues of Library Journal was Elizabeth Foley's consideration of the Law of Life and Death. When are we alive? When is life gone? What happens when the latest medical information meets the current legal opinions? Why is the juice always red?
Started reading Diane Ackerman's One Hundred Names for Love while sitting under a tree by the jogging trail. Kites. I love kites. So many families picnicking and frisbeeing in every language. What is language? How do we communicate love? How can we repair a writer's brain after a stroke?
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder