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Erect no monument.  Conduct or build no memorial.  Sing no hymns.  Hold no solemn or hand-clapping, glory-raising service.  Raise no stone.  It’s like telling a recumbent hound, “down!”

None will be erected.  None conducted or built and none held.  Never a song will rise and stone will rest undisturbed.

Thank God!

In youth, were dreams of greatness.  Broadway and Hollywood were the goals.  The aspiration simmered on the tongue and the odor filled the nose.  Lights sparkled in the eyes from the inside-out.  The heart crackled with lustful fire.  Fast feet ran toward it and the zeal of youth proclaimed it to all within hearing with loud and strident voice.  The missing ingredients were encouragement and minimal support.  None were received.

No Tonys, Golden Globes or Oscars.  No stars in pavement or feet and hands in wet cement.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

In youth were dreams of spirituality and a minister’s call was heard.  To whom, or what, and exactly how, it was unsure.  There was though youth and time and feeling that in the sureness of time the Spirit would lead the way.  Encouragement and support were similarly lacking, but more importantly there was seduction and the corruption of morals too young to know the difference.  The calling was buried, but not forgotten.

There is no bitterness, no resentment remaining over these.  The era has become geologic: ancient, sad, petrified history.  Forgiveness is given as it is received.

Youth is gone now.  The first dream was for Glory.  The second was for Love.  The first lies as dust of an unforgotten corpse.  Bones return to dust.  Only memory remains.

Anima eius et animæ omnium fidelium defunctorum per Dei misericordiam

Requiescant in Pace.

Age attends, and the second has been resurrected.  Alas!  Too late.  It now survives in an inferior vessel.  It has done good service.  None were done for itself.  All was done to advance the infinite Love that was given and commanded by the Spirit.  But, the carnal vase is nearly gone.

It no longer holds the strength to withstand the buffets of the World and the all too rapid and crawling pace of time.  It is cracked and soon will crumble.  Less than the fingers of one hand minus the thumb will mourn.

Without a stone to mark the spot, remand the shards to Potter’s Field.