Watching Farrah die

And soon, too soon.
We part with pain.
To sail o'er silent seas again.
Thomas Moore

I decided not to watch the documentary on Farrah's imminent death because cancer is such an ugly toxic reality to living and family members. I'd rather crawl in my hole and pull the lid tightly over closing off all of the finality's that life passes out sometimes. I thought it best to remember Farrah with her golden locks and giant wide smile with all those perfect white teeth.

I also prefer spending my time fussing over my own issues, problems and consequences. Last night I wondered at what particular time of day the pool would overflow from all the rain (rain we desperately need) and flood the house. Since we have no flood insurance would the pool spilling over be an act of god? The poor dog had a ruff night last night also. He for whatever reason got closed in the lanai with no escape route and it rained all night. Nowhere for him to get out of the downpour. The fool stayed there all night long getting drenched to the bone and never once barking. At 3 AM this morning I woke up and saw him staring at me through the sliding glass door. He spent the remainder of the morning sleeping on the living room rug. I'll bet that will smell sweet on the next hot humid day.

Speaking of sleep I have been avoiding that task lately. My insomnia has flared up like the nostrils of the devil himself. I believe that lack of any meaningful-restful sleep is directly connected to the much heated discussions with the kid. Living with a teenager can be stressful. I can just imagine what it must feel like to be him. I need more patience or something. My positiveness with him has washed away with the pool water.

The job situation also interferes with my sleep or lack thereof. Budget cuts and the economy being in the open dirty cesspool tarnish the image of a fruitful life - but I have lots of peaches (fruit) on my peach tree. So if I look for the good-happy signs my train will get back on the track.

'Good morning America how are you?

Don't you know me I'm your native son?

I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans,

I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done.'

by Steve Goodman

So I passed on the Farrah special or in my opinion the not so special. I care not to watch someone die. It rips the fragile soul to shreds and makes my train fall off the track and pass through graveyards of rusted automobiles. I shall focus on the brights spots of the day like the rain that fills the newly resurfaced pool waiting to spill over the edge but we desperately need this rain. My grass is getting green - wait it's just weeds - but they are green and no one will know. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and a footprint in the sand.