She got very worked up about some secret society of blogicidal poet/bloggers, asked if we wore dark robes and pointy hats and danced around a smoldering computer monitor. I really wasn't going to kill my blog, I had the flu and didn't want to deal with anything. We all know that the blog is an extra detail in our full lives that requires time, which equals money. Can we get paid for blogging? That'd be nice. So anyway...Since I was on the topic of death, I was reminded of something funny that happened to me in Providence:
So there I was In Providence, Rhode Island with my good pal Kate and we were walking to the great big cemetary along the river. It was a brisk and beautiful autumn afternoon, the cars whirring by, the light strolling toward dusk. Once inside the cemetary, Kate suggested i see this great huge tree, a maple I think. At the perimiter of its opulent shape, I looked at the grave at my feet and read "Sarah Lovecraft" and mentioned, "Where's H.P.?" and scanning to my right, on a smallish gravestone adorned with trinkets and memorabilia was his name. Wow, I thought. Here lies H.P. Lovecraft, of whom I've never read a single word. So I thought about dead writers. And now I will continue to think and blog about dead writers I discover along the way.