Marcus V

Everything exists for some end, a horse, a vine. Why dost thou wonder? Even the sun will say, I am for some purpose, and the rest of the gods will say the same. For what purpose then art thou? to enjoy pleasure? See if common sense allows this.

Marcus Aurelius, Book 8

Everyone has a destiny? Everything happens for a reason? Not my holding, but whatever.

We have one absolute rule: Sunday afternoon is go nowhere and do nothing.

This is different, but predictable for our extreme old age: Linda is not feeling well. What am I to do vis a vis understandings? Summon the screaming ambulance? Not. Absolute not, the understanding is that neither will put the other on a course to hospital except with consent. What then? Wait it out. Though every day is a beautiful day, tomorrow may be even lovelier, or not.

A friend whom I admired above almost anyone I'd ever known, a man of ultimate peace: while everyone else flees inside, floats outside in the pond watching the violent electrical storm pass over. Deathly ill, he participates in the beauty of nature.

About monthly I visit his grave. Sometimes a drive-by, more often a stop and chat. Does he know I'm there? Not there, he knows nothing, no sensibilities or cares until the raising of the saints at the End of Days. Then? billions upon billions of years hence when the sun grows to absorb all that is, seen and unseen. The End of Days is a hope, an illusion. No one can better Oblivion.

World's best martini on the rocks and a ribeye steak waiting to be seared and served.

Church today? Once a 1928 Prayerbook fiend and rabid for the rubrics, I no longer mind what is irrelevant to any concept of God that matters to me: chaos.

Warm to break down and render the flavoring fat, blacken both sides in searing heat, plate.

Glass of Amerone, dry, red.

Birthday fortnight. Virginia oysters. Maryland crab cakes. Belovedys.

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. If you believe this, we may be on the same page.

Marcus Verissimus.