Tag Archive | Grief

Dick Clark… Dies at 82.

It’s amazing to think that Dick Clark  actually died.

The ageless, flawless man.

Who could have thought that he was actually mortal?

Dick Clark... ever ageless

Dick Clark... ever ageless

He started at American Bandstand.

American Bandstand.

You can google that show if you need to, or just click here: American Bandstand

What an incredible journey his life has had.

So many people learnerd how to dance because of that show.

They learned how to rock ‘n roll.

But, The most miraculous thing about Dick Clark… was that he never aged.

Hmmm…

What a thought.

I could buy into that.

I could be digging that.

Oh, yeah.

So, that ageless thing has done him well…

And the fact that he wasa brilliant guy in front of the behind the cameras.

Not too shabby.

$100 Million at 82, means you’re doing something right.

I heard he was a great guy.

I just need to know the name of his plastic surgeon… or at least his make-up lady.

;-)

Rest in Peace.

Another legend now in the outfield…

xoxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

—–

Now… go feed my fish!

They are freaking hungry, man!

—–

Digital Edition only $0.99

Red Hot Love    Or... Radar Love? Which is it?

Red Hot Love Or… Radar Love? Which is it?

Digital Edition only $0.99

Multi Award-Winning Author Get your copy today!

Available for ALL DIGITAL READERS!

—–

Digital Edition only $0.99

Writer’s Digest Awarded “E.B. White and Me.” Get your copy today!

Available for ALL DIGITAL READERS!

Available at Amazon!

E.B. White and Me
E.B. White and Me
BUY IT TODAY!

xoxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

Beverly Hills Film Festival - Official Selection FinalistBeverly Hills Film Festival – Official Selection Finalist

Writer's Digest Awarded AurthorAwarded Author

Fade In Awards

Fade In Awards Quarter-Finalist – still in the running!

FIRST PLACE WINNER – MOFILM Los Angeles, Next SXSW competition in Austin, then Barcelona, Spain!

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author

Finalist 2011 Top 25 Semi-Finalist Los Angeles Comedy Festival

Finalist 2011 10th FilmMakers International Screenwriting Awards (1st Round Qualifier — Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 New York City Gotham Film Festival – Final 5th Place Comedy

Finalist and 1st Runner Up Screenwriting Comp

Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011

Contest Top 20 Finalist Atlanta PeachTree Film Festival 2011

Top 24 Finalist SkyFest Film Festival 2011

— Announcing  “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper,

— Announcing  “MAKING UP WITH MORTELLA” — Dark Comedy about Good and Evil, the magic of MakeUp and the Beauty of the Heart.

Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com                         Email Belle@BelleKarper.com WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog! and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites BelleKarper-AuthorSpeaker7.jpg picture by bellekarper

Music Jams it out in Calabasas, Yo.

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Working on the music today, y’all.

Slamming jams this way and that!

Watch out for flying beats and crescendos!

xoxo

Belle

www.BelleKarper.com

And, of course, watch my Skydiving Video.

AAAAAAAAH!

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author  Bookmark and Share

Finalist 2011 Top 25 Semi-Finalist Los Angeles Comedy Festival

Finalist 2011 10th FilmMakers International Screenwriting Awards (1st Round Qualifier — Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 New York City Gotham Film Festival – Final 5th Place Comedy

Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011

Top 20 Finalist Atlanta Film Festival 2011

Top 24 Finalist SkyFest Film Festival 2011

Finalist and 1st Runner-Up in Broad Humor Film Festival Screenwriting Contest

— Announcing “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper, Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com                         Email Belle@BelleKarper.com
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites
BelleKarper-AuthorSpeaker7.jpg picture by bellekarper

Skydiving Free-fall — Shock and Awe! AAAAAH!

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

AAAAAAAAH!

xoxo

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author  Bookmark and Share

Finalist 2011 Top 25 Semi-Finalist Los Angeles Comedy Festival (Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 10th FilmMakers International Screenwriting Awards (1st Round Qualifier — Still in Running)

Finalist 2011 New York City Gotham Film Festival – Final 5th Place Comedy

Top 24 Finalist Los Angeles Reel Film Festival 2011

Top 20 Finalist Atlanta Film Festival 2011

Top 24 Finalist SkyFest Film Festival 2011

Finalist and 1st Runner-Up in Broad Humor Film Festival Screenwriting Contest

— Announcing “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay!   Belle Karper, Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com                         Email Belle@BelleKarper.com
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle - The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites
BelleKarper-AuthorSpeaker7.jpg picture by bellekarper

Entry 6, Chapter 2… Why The Widow Wears Black

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 6, Chapter 2

His overeating and his weight exacerbated that sleep apnea thing I am sure.

And, the cigars. All that smoking. Five or more a day?

Stupid, really.

I see it, now. The whole hindsight thing.

But, could I tell him anything?

Would he listen?

He had it “really bad.” The apnea. Documented in the “severe” category, 40-50 interruptions an hour.

40-50?

That’s almost one clog-up a minute. He had to wear this machine with tubes coming out of it, and it sort of looked like the robot from “Danger, danger, Will Robinson!” Lots of tubing. Bendy and lengthy.

He hated that machine. Hated the sound it made. Hated the way it made him look. The way it made him feel.

The eating part probably didn’t do a lot for his heart, either. I mean, he obviously ate everything. Anything. He would finish his plate, my plate, then the kids’ plates. Good thing we didn’t have a dog.

Yeah, he should have cut way back on that eating thing.

And, the smoking. Five cigars, I mean, really. . . .

“I smoked a two-footer on the way in to work today. I had to prop it on the steering wheel! You should have seen the looks I got—

Hilarious,” he’d say.

Yes.

Hilarious.

Right.

But, he loved it all so. Really loved it . . .

Read More…

Entry 5, Chapter 2… Why The Widow Wears Black

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 5, Chapter 2

We sat at a picnic table, eating roasted turkey legs. I only ordered mine so that I could make some silly remark about King Henry VIII, otherwise I hate those nasty things.

He has now eaten down to my least favorite part of the leg.

The tendon. I am sure you know about that one sinewy piece of meat that sits on the end of that giant turkey shank. That one bit of tissue with that attached transparent appendage, half hidden against the bone like a giant rubber hangnail.

Then, just at that moment, when I was staring at that thing, this grizzled blob of useless turkey fiber, my husband’s greased fingers plucked that leg clean with commanding authority, and without any further thought, he shoved it in his mouth.

Yuck.

I wince, as I can see his mouth trying to negotiate this thick rubbery band. I can visualize his teeth almost bouncing off this grizzled spring. Almost as if it is covered with Teflon, it bounces around in his mouth, and, finally, yes finally, thank God that gristle goes down. I swear I could see the bulge in his throat as he swallowed. Yes. I hate those damn leg gristles.

I can’t believe he actually ate it.

Now, looking back . . . since I have the opportunity . . . since I have the time to look back, now . . . the eating was a problem.

Read More…

POETIC PROSE: Entry 3, Chapter 2… Why The Widow Wears Black

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 3, Chapter 2

NO. I PERSONALLY do not know that air . . . not yet.

But, I will momentarily. It will become a part of my every day breathing.

In and out.

Watch out, it may not be dry yet, that venomous foam. I might accidentally breathe some “widow air” on you.

So, you will treat me gingerly. Differently. You might even be a little afraid of me.

It is not nice.

No. Nor does it seem fair. Death is not fair to our logical mind. Yet death is an everyday normalcy, almost an antimiracle that transforms us from touched emotional beings into slack tumbled statues with odd-colored complexions. Expanding even
though we are long past our last breath.

Careful.

Do you risk getting too close? Getting too close to this widow, this mourning.

Does blue become you?

Blue becomes us all . . . eventually.

The color of blue, how deceptively soft until it’s biting your fingernails and shading your lips. And, then boo-hoo.

Ah yes, blue becomes us all.

Read More…

POETIC PROSE: Entry 2, Chapter 2… Why The Widow Wears Black

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 2, Chapter 2

This kind of air is rarely chewed by youthful lungs, yet in and out it goes.

This air is special. Not in the way you normally assume the state of special to be.

But, it is special, all right. The density and the dark of it, almost too thick
to breathe. Like a wet foam you are forced to suck in, because there is nothing
else in the room to suck.

So you drag it in, this thick froth of death. Gagging  it in. Logically repulsed. And even though you exhale – to force the lot out of  you – buried it sticks.

Staking itself to the depth of you.

Part of you now.

Eventually, the little bubbles of foam slowly pop, revealing copious gasses
that will linger in your thoughts. Little by little this spume dries like
paint. Then you too, will be caked with this coating of primal casualty.

And now, this moment, this air has touched Scott in its own leaded way. Poisonous
and heavy.

The woman. The employee. She must have steadied him just in case he’s a “fainter.”

God, she must hate the fainters, man. Without notice, down they go, their heads
bouncing on the linoleum. “Crack,” sounding like hard boiled Easter eggs
whacked on the pavement.

And then, she must be ready for the “pukers” with a vomit bucket close at hand,
just in case he blows.

She must be used to this routine – catch the fainters and dodge the pukers. Her
suit is probably still spotted from yesterday’s viewing.

It must be as though she’s watching glass shatter every day – no longer shocked by
the calamity of it and bored of its cleanup.

No wonder there’s no carpeting in here.

Then she’s left standing there rubbing her elbow. Bruised from its perpetual
grabbing by relative survival.

She must be rethinking this “day job,” for sure.

Then she raises her arm. Reaching. Then pulling.

The air wafts as the coffin lid drops.

Almost abruptly it falls.

Whaaa-puff-thud.

And, it’s down.

How careless she is, this gal and her 9-to-5 employment.

That last bit of coffin breath has now puffed out onto him and he steps away.
Instinctively, he wipes it off his clothes like a layer of crumbs dusting him
from a deathday cake.

Casket wheezing. Such a chilly draft in that unvented little room.

That moment is now tattooed on him. The tangible whisper of that passing coffin.
Yes. Tattooed. Because that moment will last him a whole lifetime.

Coffin air. Void of any of the oxygen that he’s come to know. It could’ve tried to
smother him. To suffocate him. To smear the sparkle out of him. So, he hacks it
out.

What else can he do?

Though, click. It is locked there, like a cork in his throat.

Yes.

That casket closed with a thud.

And, thank God I did not hear it.

THE CASKET CLOSED with a thud, though I did not hear it.

Read More…

POETIC PROSE: Why The Widow Wears Black… Entry 1, Chapter 2

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 1, Chapter 2

THE CASKET CLOSED with a thud, though I did not hear it.

The gasp could be heard from the next room, but I did not hear that either.

But, I know where my brother Scott is. Yes. And, I know what he is doing. I have an imagination, you know.

Yes. I know what he is doing.

Scott’s propped there, I’m sure. Trembling. Alone with a stranger. An employee of the mortuary. Looking at it – at my husband – at Gabriel – at the body – when he finally sees what is left after the dying part is done.

How long it must have taken my brother to recognize him.

How different dead must look drawn on the face of the person that you knew. Yes, he takes just a little too long to focus on my husband’s leftover parts. Trying to discern the individuality of his nose, questioning the shape of those eyes that were normally seen open, verifying the rounding of his chin. . . .

And, then the jolt. The bam, back into the reality of that face.

That unbreathing face.

Yes. How different dead must look.

Maybe there was just a little too much clarity in that moment.

Poor thing, my brother. He’s probably fumbling and grabbing the employee’s arm as if she’s an able friend. And then . . . finally . . . yes, I’m sure that it was only a nod. Doubtless, Scott squelched a choke when he tried to speak. So yes, I am sure that it was only a nod he gave her. Only a nod of verification.

He takes a breath, to steady himself.

—–

Read More…

POETIC PROSE: Why The Widow Wears Black… Entry 2, Chapter 1

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 2, Chapter 1

I turn the wheel. Tires grind and scrape. Their swivel serves willful on the spot.

Agonizing sounds a car makes when turning without the ease of moving forward.

Turning in position.

Abrupt and insistent.

But, because I turn the wheel, they twist. They have no choice.

So, they have to turn. Grinding against the friction of the still asphalt.

Abraded by the grit of the road. Roughened by the road ahead.

The road ahead…

My foot not ready.

It hovers still.

Stagnant.

Hampered.

My jerky movements… scared that I cannot trust them.

I am unsure.

Unstable.

The car pulls forward… as if on its own.

Like the steering wheel and the axle, it turns and has no choice.

We also turn, and have no choice.

Now… we have no choice.

Realization confirmed.

What we’ll turn into . . . this road of exits and accidents, breakdowns and toes tagged by innocent bystanders.

This carpool’s forward.

We stop at red lights. Green, we go.

Going.

Churning.

Emotions burning a hole deep into our family latter.

Nature failed us.

Reclamation premature.

The speed limit is unimportant. An unknown.

And, so we are going, though we do not want to go.

And, so he went, though he did not want to go.

—–

Read More…

POETIC PROSE: Why The Widow Wears Black… Entry 1, Chapter 1

Bookmark and Share


Add to Technorati Favorites (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

It’s no secret that I am… was… a widow.

This is a thrust story of edgy survival, desperation, wit and humor.

An irreverant look at the death of a husband… my husband… my late husband.

This was then…  Real life.  Real death.

In Why The Widow Wears Black, my Award-Winning Book, will be posted in it’s entirety. This book is dedicated to my children… and their survival… And, to Jim, my new husband. Without their support this book would not have been written.

Be sure to sign up, so that you don’t miss an entry.

This is a True Life Story.

—–

Bookmark and Share

So, it goes like this . . .

Entry 1, Chapter 1

GABRIEL, I CAN’T believe it. I’m stunned, really.

Paralyzed even.

I’m sitting, but . . .

The car won’t start.

Oh . . . the keys. I need the keys, I guess.

Yes.

Keys.

Are there keys on a casket? A little lock with brass fittings, and a universal catch?

Or, do they just nail it shut…

You never really think about keys, do you?

They’re just there . . . or they’re lost . . .

You associate the shape of the key with the item you need to unlock . . . Or, lock in.

No real conscious thought. Not really.

Silver square top — house.

Black rectangle — car.

Rounded black — van.

Or, a skeleton brass with newish audacity… to close a can for one.

The doors are shut.

The seatbelts bind us.

There we sit.

Waiting.

I slip the key into the slit of the ignition and it sucks it up with uncommon ease.

So… I turn the black rectangled key . . .

And there . . . the car is running.

So easy.

I have no smile of relief. No joy that the car has somehow rolled over.

A brief squelch and then it begins.

I can sense its faint vibrations, though it is at rest.

Resting in place.

Resting place.

Why? I think.

Why not? Death asks. We are unlikely to be immune.

It shows this dreadful guarantee to me.

My answer in the will…

My hands are on the wheel… because instinctively I know that

is where they should be.

It’s about that time.

My foot hovers over the gas and brake pedals.

No. I don’t want to go . . . not yet.

So, my foot continues to linger.

I look in the mirror.

They are there.

Two unlikely confirmations behind me. Staring at me.

I look away, frantic to find a window.

—–

Read More…

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 64,780 other followers