Dreams again

Two dreams in the last week or so with Karin - neither compelling or profound, but still nice. First one we were talking on the telephone, second one she was actually talking to me in person.

Sharon's son Mike has been having semi-regular dreams about his Dad as well - evidently some of his possession were moved from their usual spot in the basement for the first time since his passing, and he thinks (and Sharon suggests as well) that may have something to do it.

Dreams of the gone-before

Lengthy dream about Karin on Friday night, first in a few months, and longest in quite some time. She appeared to be in the company of others, but acknowledged me.

Then last night had another dream about her - shorter, centered around rafting - and another separate dream featuring Sharon's late husband Don. I would say his general demeanor toward me was grudging acceptance. I did tell him, to his face, that I thought he got a raw deal (dying young from cancer), and he seemed to appreciate that.

Odd - that I'd have two dreams of Karin on subsequent nights, and especially odd that I have a long and very detailed one about Don. Three years ago I would have struggled to mine this for significance - now, I'm reluctant to ascribe any to it, although do find it interesting.

Five years

Milestone, huh?

Unbroken road, broken and rebuilt...leading to the same place, but different.
Just trying to do the Walk of Life, Bear. Please stop in and say hello.

Medvědi navěky věkův.

Together...forever

Saw this...

TROY, Kan. - Residents of a northeast Kansas town are mourning the deaths just hours apart of an elderly couple who were married 67 years.

Arnita Yingling died in her sleep early Saturday at the family’s home in Troy. She was 93. Six hours later her 95-year-old husband, Lyle, died at a nursing home in the nearby town of Wathena.

At their funeral Wednesday, friends and relatives described the two as inseparable. Some found comfort knowing neither would have to live without the other.

The Yinglings were married in 1941. Both were born on northeast Kansas farms and were active in Troy as members of their church and civic organizations.

This isn't all that unusual, and for anyone who's been through the experience of losing a spouse, this kind of story resonates with poingnat familiarity.

Natasha Richardson

I prefer to think of myself as not particularly given to celeb-watching, nor tragedy gawking...but I must admit I've been surprisingly affected by this terrible story of Natasha Richardson. Wife of Liam Neeeson and daughter of Vanessa Redgrave, beautiful woman and talented actress in her own right, she took a fall on a beginner ski slope in Canada yesterday, walked away from the injury only to fall ill a few hours later with what appears at this vantage point to be a lethal subcranial hematoma.

At this point she is in a coma, non-responsive, on life support, and her prognosis is all but certain.

I wish I could say that I can't imagine what her husband is going through, but I do. It is unspeakable, and frankly, it's dredging up a bit of stuff for me.

**edit: Report is that she passed away.

On Every Street

For someone who writes about music, my iPod working-out playlist is embarrassingly limited - maybe 15 or 20 different albums, most of which are more than two decades old. What can I say? I have a fair selection of sedate electronica, airy jazz and other cerebria onboard, but ECM jazz isn't always the best stuff to pound a treadmill to.

One of my favorites is a Mark Knopfler/Dire Straits collection, ripped from a double CD I gave Sharon for her birthday a few years back. I typically don't go for compilations, especially for artists I count as favorites (too many non-radio cuts left out), but this one is okay.

Karin liked Dire Straits. I played "Walk of Life" at her funeral, and that song is now (sadly) more or less done for me. But another selection, the title track to the Straits' last studio album On Every Street, also bears a nasty barb for me. The lyrics, especially the first verse, really get me.

There's gotta be a record of you some place
You gotta be on somebody's books
The lowdown - a picture of your face
Your injured looks

The sacred and profane
The pleasure and the pain
Somewhere your fingerprints remain concrete
And it's your face I'm looking for on every street

And the hook, simple and evocative, that rides the song out after the vocal section, recalls a pixel-detailed memory of the two of us rolling down a Colorado mountain valley highway, arms-length from each other in the cavernous and rattly Scout, on the way together to a sunny and isolated place in the lost wilds of the high country. Just the three of us, pretending we would live forever, squinting off the Colorado sun.

And now, of the three of us, it's just me. And this song.

That's how this stuff works....