Who new that Edmond’s story would bear such fruit for me: my soul captured in a jar and sitting in Edmond’s dark basement; a safehouse for the impending apocalypse; a ride in a hummer to the safehouse; and 2 strong wrists to wack off the zombies’ heads with.

I am indeed blessed!

To Campbell: If you think you can snag the last known box of Ho-Hos on your way to Minnesota, I am sure you would be extra welcome when you arrived. (Possibly canned peaches would be more practical.)

To Nina: It was great you could make it the other night. The three of us laughed and laughed and laughed….

To Annie: If I am your Farm Bard (that’s the title I would want BTW - Farm Bard), would I be required to wear those weird baggy pants that snap together just under the knee and play a lute? I don’t know how to play the lute. But I would definitely carry one around the farm pretending to play.

As far as the apocalypse goes, you are both welcome and encouraged to come to the farm, if you can make it, and provided it isn’t caused by Asiatic bugs. I was actually thinking it might be an interesting business plan to sell “safe shares” - guarantees that you’ll be allowed to come and live on the farm when things go south. Thats my gift to you this week MS, a safe place to live and grow vegetables with things go south, you can even bring Oscar and Felix, and if he promises to be our colony’s designated bard, Edmund.

Edmund, thanks for sharing your night with us. Due to your level of detail and ability to articulate so much of what I know to be true about MS, and my memory issues, in a year or so, I will probably be telling others about this tremendous night I spent with you and Mary-Scott, except that I ate my burrito right away.

It is wonderful to think of you two spending time together. You both are rarities. Yes, of course it is true that everyone is unique, but with some people, it is truer than others; and with some people their uniqueness is a multi-faceted gift that others are fortunate to receive. I am very fortunate indeed!

~Nina

(Now that you have captured her soul, what are you going to do with it?)

Love,
Pierre

To Mary-Scott: Happy Birthday, friend. You’re amazing.

To Perry: Let us never speak of that night again. Why on earth did we find it necessary to break into a graveyard? That’s how teenagers die in slasher movies.

To Joel: I would not apologize to my blood cells, I would shame them: “You deserters! How dare you leave that bloody wound! Get back INSIDE where you can do some damn good!” Sigh. Stupid blood. (I will check out Loren Eisley, however. Thanks.)

Parts of your philosophical ramblings remind me of Loren Eisley, a nature-writer/paleontology professor who taught for many years at the Univ of Pennsylvania, but who is really, REALLY, a closet poet. Some of the most sensitive writing I’ve ever read, and always about storms, the dark corners of human nature. Take him for a spin some time. Once, finding himself bleeding profusely after a bad fall, the naturalist Loren Eiseley apologized to his doomed blood cells: “Oh, don’t go. I’m sorry.” The words were spoken to no one, but addressed to all the “crawling, living, independent” entities that had been part of him, and now, through his “folly and lack of care, were dying like beached fish on the hot pavement.” You’re right up there with himin your description of the muscular wind…as I too love big storms — and always have. Bravo, Edmond!

And Remember the Plan: Even though the zombies will be chasing, for gods’ sakes, grab your flash light before heading over.