An hour to live.

I look at all the books on my shelves that I never got around to reading. Any one could have been my all-time favorite. I look at those I did read and try to remember storylines, main characters, themes. It is difficult, I’ve forgotten so much that I question the value of the time I spent reading them. This takes five minutes. Fifty-five minutes to live.

I go to the pantry and look at all the cans of food I never got around to eating. I check a few nutrition labels. All that fat, all that salt, all that sugar I could’ve ingested. I check a few expiration dates - several have had their last hours yet they persist entombed in aluminum, maybe still edible, maybe not - Schroedinger’s cans. This takes eight minutes.

Forty-seven minutes to live.

I go to the living room, flip on the television. I check the DVR - all the shows I never got around to watch. All these are programs that I once believed worth watching. A fourteen part Ken Burns document. Sorry, Ken. Half a season of Modern Family, after they started phoning it in. Meh - should have erased that a while ago. The CNN docuseries on the Royal Family. Oops. This takes seven minutes. Forty minutes left to live.

I pick up my phone and open Photos. There are more than three thousand photos on my phone, most of which I haven’t looked at, unless you count taking them, which I don’t. I wonder what I thought I’d ever do with them - make an album? Show them to the grandkids? (Gotta have kids to have grandkids.) Many of the photos were taken in bursts, meaning that there are like dozens of nearly the same shot, perhaps none of them good. Didn’t cost anything to take too many photos, not even time. This takes twelve minutes. Twenty-eight minutes left to live.

I go to the attic. It’s full of boxes. The boxes are full of things I once cared about - clothes, comic books, that wetsuit I bought to compete in a triathlon. Didn’t need it, the water temp was high enough that wetsuits weren’t allowed in the competition. Wonder if it fits? I could wear it now, but I don’t put it on. I’m not cool enough to die in a wetsuit. This takes ten minutes. Eighteen minutes left to live.

I go out on the terrace and look at the trees. They sway gently, the leaves shimmy creating a white noise that blocks out the highway and the cacophony of my thoughts. I seek calm. I seek peace. It takes a while but I find it. It lasts for a few seconds, then gives way to reality. I start to cry. This takes eleven minutes. Seven minutes left to live.

I go to the garage. The device is all prepared to operate. I take a few final breaths. I’ve always enjoyed the smell of the garage - moldy, gassy, oily, greater than the sum of its parts. Three minutes left to live.

I climb into the device. It’s suppose to take three minutes to work. I hesitate when closing the lid. In that moment I wish my life didn’t have to end. I think, there’s so much more I had to do. I want more time. But then I remember how I spent the last fifty-seven minutes and decide that I’d have just wasted that time too. I relax. I put my head down and wonder how the device works. Then I die. This takes four minutes.

For me, pure fear has a name. He smells a peculiar smell, tastes a particular taste, speaks a certain way. He is lethal and vertiginous, he waits for the window where I finally surrender my walls just to come whipping at me again. He bides his time, prowls in the darkness, overjoys in the steady rhythm of my heart before it comes back, sends my serene soul out the window. And, it pains me to say, I know him so well.

Fear tastes like lukewarm coffee while out the window, it pours. I knew him at its worst back in April. And it isn’t the unsavory taste or the lack of sweetness which bothers me. No, not that. It is the peace I sometimes find in the comforting taste, the way my lips sometimes crave to drink that coffee, forget the sour taste from yesterday, forgive its lack of sugar. And just when I have, when I’m about to, the milk turns sloppy, sour again, and I’m back to square one.

He smells rather strong, if I must say so myself. Cheap cologne he couldn’t waste the time on picking, showering on it every day in the morning before going to that vile workplace I can’t find the strength to step on, even after all these months. Particularly, he smells like rubbing alcohol mixed with after shave. A pungent, strong odor I would, unfortunately, recognize everywhere.

Fear speaks to me, always, in a low yell. Sometimes that yell heightens its intensity, but most time it is only a warning, a whisper of something that will happen if I so dare to let things go, to pursue my happiness. It is there, able to be heard in the heavy slam of doors and the rattling cups in the cupboard. In the thrown dishes, the broken chairs, the desperate yells of a dying man who just won’t give up. And I understand the need for resistance, resilience. I haven’t given up either, despite half of me being incomplete, torn, buried. But his duty has been twice corrupted and now, with no moral, no love but the one left in crumpled flowers upon a marble grave, it would be a smart surrender, a white flag, to just give this all up.

I see him every morning and every night, like a clock. Button up shirts, gray pants, a strong smell, a non existent maternal instinct. I saw him at his weakest, and to some extent, he still remains there, on the tip of the mountain, about to fall. Some nights I pray he does. He waves his fears in veiled threats and hateful, budging eyes, with spit going every which way whenever he yells. He is the sole reason my soul is so battered, so bruised and thin enough to shatter with the heavy wind in the autumn season.

I could never excuse his sins, no matter how good my heart is. He has taken advantage of my pain, of my glory, used it to mock me, to wound me. I have pronounced words twice as poisonous, and I think I mean them. No matter how good mother taught me ethics, this man is a lost case without her, and it is not my duty to mend his lost heart. Remorse is slowly building up inside me, a vile, disgusting piece of hatred and resentment I ache over, one I cannot extirpate like a cancer, one I mull over every night.

Of course, he has his bright days. Where he offers the world to me, behaves like a man his age should. Responsible, educated, civil. Even jolly, some days. Peaceful. Those days are always the hardest because I almost forget. Almost. The day after his eruptions, when he carves insults into my soul that are nothing if not a mere reflection of what he feels toward himself, the day after he makes my best friend cry, he comes back with a smile. Nothing has happened. The water is peaceful again. But I don’t forget the bruises in my best friend’s arms, I don’t forget the hurtful words, the blame misplaced and tossed at me, the empty threats and the hatred his words have had, enough to wilt my little flowers.

Sometimes I wonder, has he forgotten? Can his morale be so low, so shattered, he has forgotten the agony he put me through just months ago? When he was hurting, but not as bad as I, when he blamed me for an illness, when he told me the world would stop spinning and I deserved to stop with it? Has he forgotten I wished I was there, next to mom, instead of seeing this personified animal yelling at me? Has he erased the tears I cried because I didn’t understand why I was so doomed by an unforgiving god to hear his screams rattle the entire rickety house at three a.m? No, I realize, he hasn’t forgotten. But for him they never meant anything, they didn’t wound him as much as they did me. For me, they weakened my resolve, made me crave to be rid of this purposeless existence, cry and scream and write, but never get anywhere, because I’d never be able to escape from him.

So, no, I haven’t forgiven him. I know I perhaps should. Perhaps I’m speaking too soon. But can anybody blame me for holding him accountable for so much pain that came only and only from him? I should’ve found safety in his smell, love in his words, just like I once did with her. Instead, I found disgust, blame. Was this all really my fault?

Just this night, I was wondering if it had all been a dream–or rather, a nightmare. Had I imagined all that rage to compensate for my rotting pain? Could that kind human be the harbinger of so much unattended ire, so much reckless hatred? I sighed, shook my head, my eyes rounded with fear, with relief. The monster was gone, hidden. Stashed away in a closet. If I was lucky, it’d never come back.

But he did. Ironically, just two hours later. And I expected it, I had only hoped otherwise. That foolishness is no one’s blame but my own. I sat in bed, comforted my brother, went back to mine, curled up in a ball and wondered why the skies couldn’t take him instead. The woman we all yearn after, the one who cut all our wounds, she was too good of a soul, too much happiness, too much unsolicited peace, humility. There was no inch in her that would ever inflict pain upon me. I know that, I vow to that. I know beyond a doubt she would judge his actions, file a divorce if she knew what we’ve been through. Her two loves, brother and sister, first and second born, reduced to scared puppies, astray dogs. God, she’d be utterly upset, completely enraged, fangs and claws out at our defense. But with the past being twice gone and never to return, what good does it do to dwell upon it?

For now, I just swallow my unwanted remorse, mitigate my guilty resentment. I am not wrong for feeling it, but I still feel so. In my mind, none of this exists. I live with the woman, hearing her sing in the kitchen, her soft snores next door. I live in a reality no longer possible. Being a ghost is better than being the daughter of a stranger.

Detective Sergeant Ernie Straker stood outside the half timbered, half frost glazed door that was the entrance to the office of the Smokin Sam Detective Agency. He stared at the agencies name etched on the glass subtitled with “Private Dick For Hire No Case Too Small”. Ernie had received a muffled telephone call from Sam, twenty minutes earlier and was sure he had heard a gunshot followed by a throaty “Help” before the line went dead. DS Straker’s eyes surveyed the door looking for any signs of force, there was nothing amiss. He twisted the door knob and pushed the door wide open. Slumped in his chair behind his desk was Smokin Sam, a single bullet hole between his eyes had killed his friend instantly. The bullet had sliced through his head with such ease that the ash on the end of Smokin Sam’s cigarette remained undisturbed between his lips. Without touching anything DS Straker surveyed the scene looking for a lead. The only lead he could find was the lead in the end of the pencil that was stuck up Smokin Sam’s left nostril. On the table sat the half burnt candle that Smokin Sam used to light his cigarettes from, the flame flickered from the draft coming through the open door? He walked around to Sam’s side of the desk and could see the top drawer where Sam kept his secret stash of jelly babies had been forced open and the padlock lay unlocked by the table leg. The jelly babies were missing! He had gathered as many clues as he could, the pencil rammed up Smokin Sam’s nose, was it 2b or not 2b he pondered, the locked padlock on the floor, is the key the clue he needed and the flickering half burnt candle on the desk may hold a clue to the time of death. DS Straker took the cigarettes from Sam’s waistcoat pocket, took out a cigarette and lit it off the candle flame. He felt his nasal hair catch fire; he was never any good at lighting cigarettes from candles. He pondered the clues as he inhaled the smoke from his blazing nasal hair...............

©Julian Race 14/09/2020

Hey diddle diddle

The cat sprayed its piddle

Over a cow who dared to moon

A little dog laughed

Which he shouldn’t have done

And hasn’t been seen since June

©Julian Race 14/09/2020

nothing to replace here, love

( those tender tones spoken to her soul )

the fragile wounds set much deeper

then your skin allows . not to change with new

inhale... mmm

deep strokes of paint on your canvas

you’re still just as beautiful within your heartbeats

you always were,

can’t you see?

turning that shattered glass into liquid silver

stroked by painless fires

healing heat against once bleeding parts

( lungs moving to new rhythms )

incoherent sadness touching your being like muted ice

but fading

fading until the dawn breaks, and you’re swallowing the sun

you are... stained color glass

pained from your struggles but real

so so real ( sang in murmurs

do you feel the smile against your skin? )

believe in what is you

please

liquid silver, heated gold

lost contellations

strength rising from the ashes

( within the tired whispers of you )

.

I get it.

I really am alone aren’t I?

Yeah...I’m lost

Don’t hold my hand.

You’ll get lost too.

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

They will laugh at you

Silence your pain

They will stare at you

Smile

They will look away

You look so calm

You look so happy

You look so...fine

But in your head,

There are so many voices

They shout all at once

You cry

In your head

You scream a silent scream

Your eternally screaming

No wonder no one hears your shouts

Don’t show!

They will judge you

Keep your smile convincing

And

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

Don’t cry

You cried.

Why am I like this?

People look at me and think I’m so depressed.

To be honest, I don’t really feel anything.

Not really happy...but I’m not sad.

I don’t smile.

I also don’t frown.

I don’t really laugh.

I don’t really care either

But younger me, from now...

It’s a big change.

I smiled a lot.

Used to at least.

I laughed a lot too.

I was happy.

But now I’m just...

Not really anything.

Is this normal...

Am I supposed to feel nothing?

I just don’t feel human anymore.

I don’t know...

I just changed.

But I’m not too sure if I’m happy with what I’ve become.

Just one hour to live. I take a deep breath.

In the beginning of it all, at the start of my life, I would have fought it. Kicked and screamed and desperately searched for some escape. Anything for just another day.

Something has shifted in me now that I am approaching 50. Not that I particularly want to die in the next hour. Of course there is fear! But there is also acceptance. This feeling that I have lived a full life already.

Now my desire is to call my family to say a last "I love you." Then maybe a cup of coffee and a smoke. I quit smoking in my 30's but now a cigarette sounds like a good idea. I feel a peace that I lived the best life I could. I made so many mistakes but I always had so much love around me that the mistakes didn't break me.

I think that's maybe the secret to a content life . . . love. Not just romantic love but a real love for all those around you. To love those who come in and out of your life. To not judge or hate but to accept and love.

When the hour is up I snuff out the cigarette, take one last swig of coffee and head into the next chapter, whatever that may be. Feeling sad to leave this earth but thankful for the time I had here and the people I got to spend that time with. An hour is just enough.

NASA's Hubble Space Telescope has captured an image (see photo above) showing what the space agency is calling a "pocketful of stars" — a section of the universe packed with thousands of multicolored stars. The picture captures the "globular" cluster named NGC 1805, which is located near the Large Magellanic Cloud, a satellite galaxy of the Milky Way.

Typically, globular clusters contain stars that are born at the same time, NASA said. But NGC 1805 is unusual — scientists believe it contains two different populations of stars that are millions of years apart in age.

NASA compared the close orbit of the stars to bees swarming around a hive. The agency said it's unlikely that the stars at the center will be orbited by planets, because they're 100 to 1,000 times closer together than the nearest stars are to our sun.

The cluster is visible from the Southern Hemisphere in the "Dorado" constellation, which is Portuguese for dolphinfish.

Hubble's positioning in space grants it the unique ability to capture different wavelengths of light. Earth's atmosphere absorbs most ultraviolet light, making the cluster's difference in star colors impossible to observe from the ground.

The image combines different types of light to highlight the remarkable difference in star colors — blue stars, shining brightest near ultraviolet light, and red stars, brightest in red and near-infrared.

Astronomers are interested in observing clusters like NGC 1805 in order to learn more about the evolution of stars, as well as what factors lead to them dying as white dwarfs versus explosive supernovae.

**********

This is an article I found while surfing the news this morning.

I found it interesting as this is the first actual photograph

I have seen that shows there is actual color in space

and not the black we see from the ground

with what we may have believed to be white stars.

This, to me, is simply amazing!