The Kolog

In Memoriam

Buddha and the Buddhists, at least those whose work I have read, say that life is suffering; and I choose to believe them.  For with such a mindset, we prepare ourselves for the ultimate loss, which is death.

I was shocked to learn earlier yesterday, that my aunt Heidi had passed away on Friday night.  She gave no indication of such a grave condition, which made her massive heart attack even more stunning.  But, at the risk of sounding insensitive to her beloved husband, daughter and siblings whom she leaves behind, why should I cry?  It could have been me who failed to rise from bed on Saturday morning.  It could have been my sister or brother or father or mother.  Having said that, what am I left to do but cry?  For I remain among the living whose fate it is to suffer for all of those who are not so fortunate.

The last time I saw Aunt Heidi, I was playing the guitar on the back porch of Uncle Buzz and Aunt Laura’s house shortly after Missy’s wedding.  Having not performed for a crowd, really, since the last time I was in Wichita for my grandmother’s funeral, I was left with few songs to perform other than the old standards.  As many of you know, those standards in my repertoire consist mostly of Bob Dylan tunes.  So, I played all of them that I knew, and Aunt Heidi sang with me word for word.

I wanted to record a version of one of those songs in memoriam of my late aunt, ; so I did.  In fear of butchering the words for sake of the sentiment, I’ve also transcribed the lyrics to the tune that makes me think of her more than any other.

She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She’s got everything she needs
She’s an artist, she don’t look back
She can take the dark out of the nighttime
And paint the daytime black

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees

She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She never stumbles
She’s got no place to fall
She’s nobody’s child
The Law can’t touch her at all

She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks
She’s a hypnotist collector
You are a walking antique

Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes
For Halloween give her a trumpet
And for Christmas, buy her a drum.

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