The most precious university paper of my demented life was "Death as Considered in the Carefully Modulated Limelight of Indifference" and I love the absolutely meaningless worthlessness of it since only uni students will come up with crap like that ... and get away with it.
When Anne, my ol' Mother, spoke of her own death and plans she had made for dealing with it, her steps sounded like she was reading something out of a cake recipe. First you do this and then you do that. Don't read this as controlling but rather it was information which was greatly easing of the apprehension for everyone or practically everyone.
She never used euphemisms such as 'when I pass' and, here at the Rockhouse, we find that sort of weasel language singularly revolting. Anne was my mother but I still don't want weasel words about her death. That acceptance of the reality of it was a tremendously important gift from her. She didn't get her world view from my paper but she had more than likely read it since I had written it for one of my ol' Dad's courses. She demonstrated total indifference although it needed some essential pragmatism which she gave for the sake of us all.
The general American reaction to any discussion of death is just about the same as with sex since they seem equally terrified of both. They aren't logical, tho. When they're so terrified of zombies why do they keep planting so many seeds for them. When they're so preoccupied with sex, why not go out to find some rather than incessantly looking online for pictures or televised simulacra.
We're revolted by funerals and that's as in the skin-crawling creepy hellzones of self-absorption they invariably portray. Then, as a sign of ultimate respect, we will cover this monkey with mud and worship whatever is left.
In a pig's eye, I will. (Euros: that's Yank for no fuckin' way. We have no idea how pigs got into it.)
By the way, all those monkeys we planted in states of such blissful repose are waiting for the Second Coming of Christ but this needs just a wee bit of review because apparently they're thinking Christ will return, see what we did to the planet and each other, and be happy with us. Well, sure, that makes sense as it always makes me the happiest when people take my stuff and trash it.
My sister freaked right out when I told her she is free now after Anne died. It's understandable one can't reach that perspective while overwhelmed by personal loss but talking with my ol' Mother had shown me unmistakably it would be a freeing experience for her. That was one of her most beautiful gifts although it's tough to top singing in the kitchen and I can almost hear her doing it now.
In some ways it was almost a joy when she died because there wasn't a hint of doubt in me she had been carrying a truckload of pain and misery for a long, long time and she hardly ever let on a peep about it.
In talking with the regulars, there's clear belief in the Hereafter but relatively little about 'talking with dead friends or relatives' and possibly I've been the most noisy about that in terms of relationships with my own dead parents. However, that's not confusion over the existence for that Hereafter in me but rather it's a personal dialog which exists in my head. It doesn't tell me for true whether my mother is dead and gone, got young again and plays for Heaven's volleyball team, or anything at all. I just know I feel a presence and I like that. Whether it's real or contrived artificially doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of practical difference.
(Ed: how can you say you're indifferent when you write quite a bit on that theme?)
Easy as I am indifferent but a tremendous number are not and they make things uncomfortable to me with various expectations regarding death such as we must only speak of it in deep, respectful tones.
That goes to someone who once wrote a song entitled "Don't Bury Your Dead" and I know some of you remember bits of it:
Don't bury your dead
just throw them by the road
put pennies on their eyes
da da da or something
Cadillac Man came up with the line about putting pennies on their eyes because this was something people did before there was embalming. Here it is over forty years later and I still remember it. High five to the Cadillac Man!
Yep, it's forty years later and I'm as indifferent as I ever was (larfs). Meanwhile, I just want the damn post-surg itching to stop and, no, you don't EVEN want to hear about it.
When Anne, my ol' Mother, spoke of her own death and plans she had made for dealing with it, her steps sounded like she was reading something out of a cake recipe. First you do this and then you do that. Don't read this as controlling but rather it was information which was greatly easing of the apprehension for everyone or practically everyone.
She never used euphemisms such as 'when I pass' and, here at the Rockhouse, we find that sort of weasel language singularly revolting. Anne was my mother but I still don't want weasel words about her death. That acceptance of the reality of it was a tremendously important gift from her. She didn't get her world view from my paper but she had more than likely read it since I had written it for one of my ol' Dad's courses. She demonstrated total indifference although it needed some essential pragmatism which she gave for the sake of us all.
The general American reaction to any discussion of death is just about the same as with sex since they seem equally terrified of both. They aren't logical, tho. When they're so terrified of zombies why do they keep planting so many seeds for them. When they're so preoccupied with sex, why not go out to find some rather than incessantly looking online for pictures or televised simulacra.
We're revolted by funerals and that's as in the skin-crawling creepy hellzones of self-absorption they invariably portray. Then, as a sign of ultimate respect, we will cover this monkey with mud and worship whatever is left.
In a pig's eye, I will. (Euros: that's Yank for no fuckin' way. We have no idea how pigs got into it.)
By the way, all those monkeys we planted in states of such blissful repose are waiting for the Second Coming of Christ but this needs just a wee bit of review because apparently they're thinking Christ will return, see what we did to the planet and each other, and be happy with us. Well, sure, that makes sense as it always makes me the happiest when people take my stuff and trash it.
My sister freaked right out when I told her she is free now after Anne died. It's understandable one can't reach that perspective while overwhelmed by personal loss but talking with my ol' Mother had shown me unmistakably it would be a freeing experience for her. That was one of her most beautiful gifts although it's tough to top singing in the kitchen and I can almost hear her doing it now.
In some ways it was almost a joy when she died because there wasn't a hint of doubt in me she had been carrying a truckload of pain and misery for a long, long time and she hardly ever let on a peep about it.
In talking with the regulars, there's clear belief in the Hereafter but relatively little about 'talking with dead friends or relatives' and possibly I've been the most noisy about that in terms of relationships with my own dead parents. However, that's not confusion over the existence for that Hereafter in me but rather it's a personal dialog which exists in my head. It doesn't tell me for true whether my mother is dead and gone, got young again and plays for Heaven's volleyball team, or anything at all. I just know I feel a presence and I like that. Whether it's real or contrived artificially doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of practical difference.
(Ed: how can you say you're indifferent when you write quite a bit on that theme?)
Easy as I am indifferent but a tremendous number are not and they make things uncomfortable to me with various expectations regarding death such as we must only speak of it in deep, respectful tones.
That goes to someone who once wrote a song entitled "Don't Bury Your Dead" and I know some of you remember bits of it:
Don't bury your dead
just throw them by the road
put pennies on their eyes
da da da or something
Cadillac Man came up with the line about putting pennies on their eyes because this was something people did before there was embalming. Here it is over forty years later and I still remember it. High five to the Cadillac Man!
Yep, it's forty years later and I'm as indifferent as I ever was (larfs). Meanwhile, I just want the damn post-surg itching to stop and, no, you don't EVEN want to hear about it.
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