Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Grief

A friend, 61, died Friday morning after a long, surgery-induced illness. I hope her family sues and at least gets some financial help with her bills. Seven weeks in Intensive Care can be pricey.

But I battle more with the meaning of it. In the poem Out, Out, Robert Frost ends the story of a young boy's grisly, accidental death with the lines, "Nothing to build on there. And because they were not the one dead, they turned to their own affairs." I don't want my friend's, or anyone's death, to be so easily forgotten because, well, we're so busy, and we're not the one dead.
And yet I find myself thinking "I have to go see Brenda in the hospital" and then realizing I don't have to, and then being relieved.

And that makes me all the more conscious of the fact that we will all be dead, and possibly forgotten easily, too.

Netflix

Netflix has changed its design and now gives you a percentage match, I suppose based on what you have watched before.  Here are some interes...