And visiting with ghosts
We need to make that drive, man. I'll introduce you to some ghosts I know just a bit further west . . . which may be a metaphor we don't need to pursue, that "down the road" "ahead of you" accumulation of souls we eventually join in the big dust storm of God-only-knows! Southside road, windows down, banditoed-up, ghost stories and the printed page . . . or a backyard beer, either way. Write on, my friend.
I love this Chris.
Potently Real. Feel fortunate to have shared some of these joys and pains, and to call you a Brother.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. This post feels so honest and transparent and pure soul, one of my favourite writings from your heart and your hands.
Your blog today reminds me of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116. One line states, “(Love) bears it out to the edge of doom,”
Thank you for this wealth of real life, Chris. It's the stuff that matters; how we measure time on a grander scale. If we are in touch with ourselves in the least bit, the past that will never be again is bathed in melancholy. I get it. I felt my own while reading your words.
Thanks for sharing the song. It's great. As is the writing, as always. I'm so sorry for your losses.