He shows up from time to time, but the sight of him sickens me so much that I have no choice but to spare you the details.  It’s the least I can do.  There’s just no point in wallowing in that kind of picture, no benefit at all, far as I can tell, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut for now, if you don’t mind.  I’ll just keep looking away until either the thought of him finally disappears, which doesn’t seem likely, or he finds some way to get himself cleaned up. 

I can tell you this: There is nothing romantic about watching a man totter on the edge of darkness.  The unnatural tautness of limbs, the nervousness, the frantic look - at first you think he’s there for your entertainment, and you look on, glad for the distraction.  After all, it’s not you standing there.  You’re not the one who’s lost.  That kind of thing doesn’t happen to you.  No, you’re too smart not to stay a step ahead of whatever it was that grabbed onto this poor fool, and yet, there you are, toe to toe with a desperation that you now can’t pull your own eyes away from.  You watch as the man begins his long, slow fall backwards.  You watch him become lost in his own fear, feel it grabbing at you, trying hard to pull you in with it, and you think to yourself, now he’ll step away, because he has to, doesn’t he?  He has no choice.  No man just disappears into a hole of his own fear.  It doesn’t happen.  But when you look down you see the man’s feet are rooted, and you look away not believing what is happening.  But you hear it.  You hear the bones of his ankles cracking and breaking as you clamp your hands over your ears to try and block out the screams, until finally, finally you are able to close your eyes until eventually everything is quiet again.

This is not what you had planned, but you reach down and pick up the bloody feet, trying hard not to look at the splintered bones that poke through the raw flesh.  No, this is not it at all.

Several years ago I picked up a nice stack of postcards dating back to around the time of World War I, but have never seemed to take the time to sort through them very carefully.  There are literally hundreds of postcards, and I suspect many of the collections sitting here in front of me contain all of the cards that were originally sold with the set.  Several of the sets are still in their original booklets, the thin parchment paper that came between each and every card still intact.  None of the cards appear to have been sent via the post, although several do have things written on the back, some in the form of notes--maybe as a reminder of places visited--but some do appear to be written for someone else’s benefit.

I’ll share one such little treasure with you today, with the hope that someone out there can help me with parts of the handwriting that I’ve been unable to decipher.  It appears, although I’m only guessing here, that the number “3” appears at the top of the back of the postcard, and unfortunately, I don’t seem to have whatever cards came before this one.  From what I’ve been able to decipher, the card reads:

3

The major who was a guest asked me to supper out afterwards.  He was a perfect gentleman very interesting too but no special friend of mine, a mere social acquaintance friend of the American hostess who introduced me to him.  Don’t care for officers ther (some) are a disgrace to the uniform too often.  Do you recognize the Race course where ___ and I stood? ---- Never been there _____.  We were on the left. ---- My love [check mark?] thoughts to you.  Ever your friend. _______

[Article to follow]

I think I would have to call that The Weekend Without A Breath.  Hard at work Friday night until around 8:00, back at it for a full day Saturday, then a half day again on Sunday.  And today shows no promise of letting up, so much of what I want to write about is just going to have to wait a day or so.  There’s Friday night that needs talking about, as I stumbled sweaty and tired into some small town bar for some dinner and a beer, only to find myself hanging around to listen to some music I’ll have trouble describing.  But I will, later, over on Scrinetunes, or as it’s about to be known as soon as I find the time to make the necessary changes - Scrine Song.  And maybe I’ll tell you about my relocated office and the unpacking of books, because the story of books always makes a good story.  Or maybe I’ll tell you about me and the boy going over to help mow my brother’s lawn on Sunday afternoon, except that isn’t all that much of a story, although it does have a great ending - me and my brother sitting on the swing, drinking beer and watching the boy go round and round on the riding mower.  I hate to say it, but I may have caught a glimpse of my own future as an old man right then and then.