requiescat in pace

The "viewing" for Ralph Vicinanza last night was sad and uncomfortable, as such things must be. I don't want one, myself. Spend the money on a party at the next worldcon. Put a photograph of me by the beer.

I saw lots of people I look forward to seeing soon under better circumstances.

It's strange to go through New York without "being in" New York. We took a cab ride from Penn Station to Grand Central, and then straight up to Yonkers on the commuter rail. After the funeral here, we go straight to the airport and down to Florida, where I'm giving a talk tomorrow. Have to scan a bunch of cover art before that.

And student manuscripts to read on the train and plane. Maybe a little of my own writing. Busy busy busy.


All through this sad business I've been haunted by the lines of a Steve Goodman song, not so much sad as true:


The day you're born, they sign a piece of paper

That certifies the date of your birth.

Then when you die . . . they sign you another

Just to prove you've gone back to the earth.

In between those two pieces of paper

Lies a truth that is so hard to find

For the story of your life is written,

But you must read in between the lines.


Joe