There are two kinds of ghosts. There are those people who make up various generations who rather than admit that they overstated their capabilities and can’t get a job done, they just walk away and never say a word. That happened last year just before we left for the Japan leg of our tour. I knew these two dudes could never get it done because far better people than these wannabes have tried for years and the technology just doesn’t exist. Rather than send me a quick communication of any kind, they said nothing. No respect from them to me and worse — for them — my memory is very long. No threats here. Not even a promise. Just a fact.
The other ghost is a memory. I received notice that a friend of mine is at death’s door. He is a great photographer. His work hangs in The Smithsonian. We’ve known each other since — I think — 1983. In two different states. We used to aggravate each other playfully. We’d invite each other to lunch and give each other the bill. No matter. There’s always next time. No more next times soon. We hadn’t planned to come back for Mardi Gras, but here we are. I have no intention of missing the chance to say goodby. Dammit. That’s happened too many times in the past. Not this time, Universe. Not this time.
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