Combine: fact that I am going on a brother-visiting expedition this weekend, alert level = orange, questionnaire item about whether I believe in an afterlife, news item today about mad cow disease in Canada. Slosh around together in my brain. Serve:

A better answer to the afterlife question might be "I don't know." The question was whether I believe in it, and upfront, consciously, at the moment when I answered the question, "No" was my honest answer. But now that I've been paying attention, I notice that I talk to God, or my guardian angel, or Fate, or Whoever, rather often, also my dead grandfather once in a while. So my unconscious (or whatever the proper psychological term would be) seems to say different.

Though I also act as if I will not die tomorrow, or next week, or this year, or anytime within the next 50+ years, I do occasionally register that I may be mistaken. Even if I'm not, experience so far indicates that time passes more quickly than one expects. And yet, I continue to do just about anything but write in my spare time. Clearly another mental disagreement.

brainslosh rarely has a coherent point.

anyway, if my plane in either direction goes blooey, I love everybody, and Stewart can have my stuff. And no one gets to chop down the backyard elm tree, child of the grandparents' backyard elm of old, until there's a seedling to take its place in the line of succession.

copyright 2003 carrie lynn king.