There's a hole in the bucket.

...    Will there be not a trace left behind?

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There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza, dear Liza. There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza, There's a hole. Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. Then fix it dear Henry, dear Henry. Fix it. With what should I fix it Dear Liza, dear Liza? With what should I fix it dear Liza, with what? With a straw dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. With a straw dear Henry, dear Henry, With a straw. But the straw is too long Dear Liza, dear Liza. The straw is too long dear Liza, too long. Then cut it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. Then cut it dear Henry, dear Henry. Cut it! With what shall I cut it Dear Liza, dear Liza? With what shall I cut it dear Liza, with what? With an axe dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry. With an axe dear Henry, with an axe. But the axe is too dull Dear Liza, dear Liza. The axe is too dull dear Liza, too dull. Then sharpen it dear Henry, Dear Henry, dear Henry. Then sharpen it dear Henry, dear Henry. Sharpen it! With what should I sharpen it Dear Liza, dear Liza? With what should I sharpen it dear Liza, With what? With a stone dear Henry, Dear Henry, dear Henry. With a stone dear Henry, dear Henry, A stone. But the stone is too dry Dear Liza, dear Liza. The stone is too dry, dear Liza, Too dry. Then wet it dear Henry, Dear Henry, dear Henry. Then wet it dear Henry, dear Henry. Wet it. With what should I wet it Dear Liza, dear Liza? With what should I wet it dear Liza, With what? With water dear Henry, Dear Henry, dear Henry. With water dear Henry, dear Henry, With water. But how shall I get it Dear Liza, dear Liza? But how shall I get it dear Liza, With what? In the bucket dear Henry, Dear Henry, dear Henry. In the bucket dear Henry, dear Henry, In the bucket! There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza, dear Liza. There's a hole in the bucket dear Liza. There's a hole. James Naylor Walls 1835-1915. David James 1868-1929. Alton Lee 1902-1981. Elizabeth Anetta 1908-1992. Married 1932. Daughters born 1933 & 1937. Hiroshima August 1945. Concieved November 1945 (a mistake? a slip?). Born July 1946 (a difficult breech, forceps, unforgiven? teenagers resentful at having to care for it until school reopened in September?) Selecting photographs ... to illustrate some notion? make a point? fit a sequence? fit the available space? not leave anyone out? because you have them? because you like them? All of the above plus a mood on a given day? For whom? For strangers on the Internet? a once and future family? one's self? Because ... one is alone and time permits? is long? demands to be filled? To assuage regrets? To create an acceptable fiction? history? identity? A lifetime of believing (like a fool) that home is where they welcome you when you arrive is insufficient to establish the fiction as fact; mistaking & twisting "... have to take you in when you have to go there," (and never noticing the 'have to's in it at all until just now). The women come and go, obviously - so much for eternal love. Maybe the kids will stick? Often bragging on them might have been a warning that they won't. Several possible lessons in this for those who prefer their justice balanced. And when it's done nothing much has been said. Trite, mediocre, self-indulgent twaddle ... ... I suppose. Who knows?
		Hasn't really changed since then. Contrary to public wisdom, what's broken doesn't mend. My friend Vincent disliked computers, email, all of it - digital cameras in particular. Quite rightly. And he managed, almost entirely, to avoid 'em. Gone now and can't hear my praise. I'm no good and never have been. When sea-anemones die (and their cousins, polyps in coral homes) they 'evert' (as I understand it), turn inside out. Having only one orifice I wonder if I can hear a chorus of Mozart's 'Bona Nox' goin' on. I know you're not supposed to reveal such things on the Internet - but I can't remember why? Anyway, there's nothing left here worth stealing. Rein Kuris (who also introduced me to Christopher Alexander) told me that a neighbourhood kid balled up the portrait opposite and threw it in the gutter. Odd sort of story to make up so it could be true. One authentic response then. Dad, Dave Stevenson, Simon Charlie, Pius ... stuck up for me and I betrayed 'em all and more besides.

 

I really am losing steam for this project. Dad's birthday today but he's gone and can't hear me. Wow Grandpa ... are you waking up or going to sleep?                                 I don't remember!

Goneril:             Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;             Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;             Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;             No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;             As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found;             A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.             Beyond all manner of so much I love you. Fool:             Then they for sudden joy did weep, and I for sorrow sung,             That such a king should play bo-peep and go the fools among.                                                     (WIlliam Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Lear, ~1600)

As Sicknes is the greatest misery, so the greatest misery of sicknes, is solitude; when the infectiousnes of the disease deterrs them who should assist, from comming; even the Phisician dares scarse come. Solitude is a torment which is not threatned in hell it selfe. (John Donne 'Devotions upon Emergent Occasions and seuerall steps in my Sicknes.   Meditation V: Solus adest. The Physician comes.' 1624)

I could've loved you better; didn't mean to be unkind. You know that was the last thing on my mind.   Of course all, all is forgiven; goes without saying. Afterword: My first wife and I might have attended a concert in Montréal where someone sang, "There'll be one child born in this world to carry on, to carry on," it's possible. Please let this not be interpreted as moribund maudlin mawkishness. Manuel is not my child. She was a skinny teenager more than a decade ago and I might have talked her into it then but I missed my chance. Now, there is simply a (mirandous & stupendious) hopefulness springing from the event; not least because I am included, even from so far away. The good thing about preparing posts a year in advance is that there's lots of time for an Afterword; several even. A kid on the Pike's Peak trail (near Gravenhurst) with his father, he must'a bin four - if the scribbling on the back of the picture is true and it might not be. And I have no idea who he was ... or became.

 
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