tomorrow a private (family only) burial of my father. his ashes. a week from saturday a memorial service. neither of these have much meaning for me. Beth, Erin and I will go to Provincetown this weekend, and say goodbye. neither Beth or Erin have been there before. a place where my father spent a lot of time, his mother grew up there, his grandfather owned a store and wharf there. and it seems like there is where he wished to go, when he said he wanted to go home. or Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge, the worlds of his childhood. so that's the best significance I can make. goodbye and hope you find your home. today I wrote an angry anti-church diatribe. I think some churches have social value beyond the crass commerce of people getting along. I mean they can be there in many moments of a life, not just those emotional apexes when people feel the duty. I did not see this in dad's church. it was just going thru the motions in 'thinking of dad'. a church he was part of for 60 years. I can't recall if I've written here of the funeral we gave Beth's father. who wanted truck with no such thing. but all we did was read from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. on the most beautiful hillside in West Virginia (that's saying something!), a family plot overlooking a farmstead that belonged to his family, on a bright autumn morning. the worn out patterns don't mean anything. I'm not looking for comfort in that sense. something spiritual not mere opiate. a sense of connection in some wider sense, a poetry amongst us.