Mushroom
By Isao Oishi
These photographs were made on 5/12/18 in Sheperdstown, West Va.
These photographs were made on 5/12/18 in Sheperdstown, West Va.
“The top’s too heavy, too much space below,” my neighbor says. “’Spect she’ll start sagging soon.” He’d lugged the massive thing out front for me. I realize with horror that he’s right. I’d carved my share of pumpkins through the years, protected them from predatory squirrels, from Mischief Night marauders: hubris had at last undone me. A slightly wider grin, an extra tooth or two—I should have known the plan was flawed, the architecture tenuous. Before too long the carriage will collapse, sides slump, rind pit and wrinkle, pulp dissolve and putrify. The oblique eyes, the arching brows, isosceles nose are doomed to droop and molder. Look on those overweening teeth, ye mighty, and descry their graying edges fold and sear, like the striate skin of a stitched cadaver. Now soon a press of princesses, pop stars, pirates, pixies, vampires, ninjas, sprites, enchanters, supermen, and bumblebees will throng the street, importunate to take their turn, while my poor jack-o-lantern, claimed by gravity, sits rotting at the door before I’ve even got the candle lit.
What more could we have asked, so long ago,
than this, this endless noon, this cloudless sky,
idyllic, constant, calm? How could we know
we’d weary of that bright, unblinking eye?
Such blessings grow oppressive, and this grace
now lays upon us torpor like a pall;
each languid move, each whispered word, each trace
of breath–the weight of hours has stilled them all.
Life teeters on the fulcrum of the sun
until the course of nature drags it down,
progressing slowly through the vacant plain
to that last, passing point where we are shown
a shaft of light between two standing stones–
a sign–before the longest day is done.
Florence Newman, Professor emerita
Department of English, Towson University
“Years ago, Charlie, a highly respected orthopedist and a mentor of mine, found a lump in his stomach. He had a surgeon explore the area, and the diagnosis was pancreatic cancer. This surgeon was one of the best in the country. He had even invented a new procedure for this exact cancer that could triple a patient’s five-year-survival odds—from 5 percent to 15 percent—albeit with a poor quality of life. Charlie was uninterested. He went home the next day, closed his practice, and never set foot in a hospital again. He focused on spending time with family and feeling as good as possible. Several months later, he died at home. He got no chemotherapy, radiation, or surgical treatment. Medicare didn’t spend much on him.”
Ken Murray, How Doctors Die, The Best American Essays, 2012
Originally published in Zocalo Public Square
“The atheist does not say and cannot prove that there is no deity. He or she says that no persuasive evidence or argument has ever been adduced for the notion. Surely this should place the burden on the faithful, who do after all make very large claims for themselves and their religions.”
Christopher Hitchens
“What We Were Reading: 2006,” Guardian, 12/05/09
By Oliver Sacks, 1933 – 2015
“When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate—the genetic and neural fate—of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.”
New York Times essay.
(Click image to enlarge.)