|Grim Reaper at Lincoln City|
I've thought a lot about death. Not what comes after. There's no point in thinking about that. This doesn't keep my children from constantly arguing about it, however. While other people's kids fight over the remote control, mine come to blows over the afterlife. We had another round just this Tuesday, as a matter of fact. Blue: nothing. Coyote: heaven. Blue: nothing. Coyote: god.
Actually, I have thought about what comes after death, a pointless exercise or not. I just can't help myself.
And I've thought about how I'll die. Usually, what happens is, I get a runny nose. And my differential goes like this: Lou Gehrig's? Ebola? Alzheimers? Cancer? pre-cancer? I can usually talk myself down to "cold" but it might take an hour or two. Maybe it will be an industrial accident and that's why I don't want to go to work. Anyway, thinking about how I'll die is also kind of pointless. Thinking itself seems kind of pointless, frankly. But that never seems to stop me for doing it, and doing it too much. Perhaps THAT's what makes people go cross-eyed.
But back to death, I think lots of other pointless and ineffectual things about death. Such as how come we seem so opposed? Why do we keep making it legally impossible? Between the FAA and dragged out death scenes that go on for years, and sometimes decades, it seems the one thing we Americans can't tolerate is death.
And also, I think about why death exists at all.
|Maiden, Mother, Crone|
I can think a lot of things about a lot of topics, as you can probably tell, but sometimes after thinking about something, reasoning it out, coming to logical conclusions (I did get a 4.0 in Logic) or not so logical, the truth of what I've thought-out will wash over me as an emotional/spiritual wave. And I'll suddenly get it, like a religious experience: oh my god! That's true! And I'll feel it all over, in all my buzzing little cells.
|Death of a Ruddy Duck Pinata.|
And I feel it. I stretch out on my spring dirt. I make full-body contact with it. I lay in my garden rows, and I feel that dirt all along me. And that glorious death. A riot of death. A hootenanny of death. A bosom of death. Ahhh... bury me alive... in all this death...but leave a little air hole for now.