The angel realized, when it was too late, her audience was gone. She had become a witch—a powerful, awe-inspiring, angelic witch—at the same moment they had stopped enjoying the antics of witches and angels. And they had no interest in transmogrification, either. Nor did they care about her claims of supernatural connections with the netherworld. Their only remaining fascination was with themselves. Even as she melted, she heard them complimenting the cracked mirrors that reflected their perfection.
“If only you could have seen me before I flew into the sun,” she muttered, her black feathery wings dripping wax onto her wiccan tunic. “I was stunning! My black platinum halo reflected only the purest light and my…”
Her speech slowed and the volume of her voice fell to an inaudible whisper. With that, she and her words melted into oblivion. Her worshippers had paid no attention to her demise. They were too absorbed by the abstract images in the broken glass to notice.
+++
The only way you could know my deepest thoughts would be for me to allow you inside my head. But I cannot do that, as much as I might want to share myself with you, else when you leave you might carry my secrets with you. What value could those mysteries possibly have, though, to anyone but me? Their value is not in being divulged, but in being maintained in a vault—behind a lock for which only I have the combination. Secrets protect one from revealing realities that might paint an unflattering picture. The jealous, violent monster hiding behind the façade of a gentle, caring husband, for example. Or the neo-Nazi thug living beneath a thin veneer of civil rights activist. Or the libidinous beast counselling sexually harassed women. Or the serial killer who expresses outrage and disbelief at the horrific actions of Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. My secrets, though, are not so shocking. Just revealing. Yours, too, would expose a side of you few have seen. If you were to share a secret with me, you might learn that my secret and yours are one and the same. And, if you shared your secret more widely, you might find that ten of your friends hold that same secret in their own impenetrable vaults. But you could find, instead, that your friends recoil at your revelation, unwilling to admit their own versions of the secrets hidden and protected within that locked safe.
+++
I had lunch at a Mexican restaurant yesterday, one of the rare occasions I allow myself to go out in non-medical settings in public. I could have gone into town, but for some reason the time and distance involved in going to a sushi-bar or a Vietnamese restaurant or some other more “exotic” place seemed a bit much. Back home after the adventure, I napped on one of the long, white leather sofas in the living room. When I started napping on one of those sofas, I was surprised at how comfortable it is. The sofas are quite long, so I do not have to bend my body to fit (not that my body is especially long, but still…). Sometimes, the sofa is more comfortable than the bed, if for no other reason than its convenience and easy access. If only the living room had a wood-burning fireplace stoked with big oak and hickory logs, it might be the perfect retreat for a geezer in decline. Sometimes, I have Alexa play soothing music while I nap, a relaxing respite from the harshness of television and internet news. There are days…or weeks or months or years…when I wish I had absolutely no access to news. Times when living the life of a dedicated recluse would be as pleasant as anything I can imagine.
+++
Until yesterday, my calendar included a visit to an ophthalmologist in Little Rock, who was to fix my left eye. For a thousand reasons, I decided—again—to postpone the procedure. Among the reasons: I would rather be done with my chemotherapy treatments and all their side-effects before delving into the after-effects of a procedure that would give me discomfort and reduced vision for a week or a month or more.
+++
Is anyone willing to share the name and contact information for an anesthesiologist who might be willing to place me in a temporary coma for a month or two? I am asking all three of my regular blog visitors—it could be down to one or two by now—for input. In other words, I am whispering into the wind. I hear my words come back to me as I ask the question; but the words are garbled in the powerful breeze. Ach!
