(An excerpt from 1000 Thoughts for Funeral Occasions, compiled by F. M. Barton, 1912, appears in this work.)
“perfumed and in flowing robe, with languid step and slow…” -Menander
Life is ice on a tilted plane of glass. It is measured by the rotations it makes before spilling over the edge.
Clouds loom above feigning Life. They taunt him and lure him out to what he believes is the good life, the wet earth. He crawls out onto the pavement to soak in the rain. When the gray overhang disappears, the worm, still lingering for another glimpse of Love, is pinned by the fatal rays of the sun.
Death is not who we expect. He is a coward. And he is insatiable. We picture him as patient, content on striking exactly when he deems appropriate; however, he lacks that mythological perfection we dream about. He is nervous and he often saunters in too soon. Upon his arrival, he is unable go through his procedure quickly: at a loss, he pecks our cheek and revolted, pecks the other, until he realizes the inevitable and timidly finishes his work. He often wishes he could die himself – so that he too could end meaning. He decided long ago that the significance behind his work wasn’t collecting souls, but that eventually, when everyone has passed through his lips, he would rest in peace.
Why is it that only the grieving cry? Shouldn’t the dying, too? Shouldn’t they be terrified of their shallow breath? Isn’t the nearness of Death overbearing? Maybe the grieving are envious of the dying? Perhaps the dying finally voice their subconscious feelings subconsciously as we, the grieving and dying, breathe in together, and out, in a final terse draw of breath?
Thirty white stones surround sixteen black stones. The black stones have one lung; it is worthless because it is false. Even with a real lung, the stones would die just as quickly. A group of stones need two lungs to live; or as the Japanese say, two eyes for Life. It’s balanced that way. ‘Dwell on the past and you’ll lose an eye, forget the past and you’ll lose both.’ In the end, the stones don’t struggle; they die quickly and, with the snap of a stone, are removed, leaving their imprint on the living.
In this Life, “live free or die”. That is the motto of a modern conservative state. How far we have strayed from the path our fathers built for us… us children who think that we know better. We should be embarrassed to have spoken against our fathers’ wishes. We should have let him die so that we wouldn’t have to continue speaking against his wishes, as if he’s there watching us as we rebel against invisible stone hands.
Walking on a bridge, I look out onto the river, stories below. A whisper of yellow light reflects on the river’s surface; a dapple of sun waves and I see the birth of heaven. Angels hovering, glowing tenderly, watching me as I pass; softly talking to each other. One extends his hand, another her hand and the golden reflection is no longer a path leading to the sun, but an extension of itself. I must leap off the bridge into the water. Death is the squall that will slow my fall; he is the cold water that will embrace me; and the angels are his face that will kiss me.
Why do you seek such little deaths? Why do you give up your dignity for this petite mort? Are you unsure of life? Or do you need Death, in some way, to go on living? What possesses you to seek vulnerability, when all your life you struggle against it? Is the dawning of Death’s beak and its closeness what keeps us asking for more?
Doesn’t suicide exist? I’ve poured over the newspaper stands for the evidence; I don’t see anything but a black-and-white Reaper sowing his wheat.
And I will die without a hope, a care, or a desire. Everything shall be for Death. Because today, I am unsure how to act; whether to sing or cry or roll. That I might have kicked the air during my youth, it is true that I fought the wild (the rocks and the trees) bare-fisted. And when that final breath dawns on me it will be revelatory and I will understand what Love truly is.
How does the sun rise over me every morning? What could possibly make my days rear forward into the arms of Life? How will I escape little deaths? What will sanctify me? How will I escape these industrial fields? Am I not trapped between misery and joyfulness? Am I not strung up to run back and forth between the heart’s yearnings and its billows? When will I stop needing a sunrise to verify the morning? Will cold oatmeal ever fill the meaning of my day?
Death is always past or always future. We cannot articulate now: when Death has taken our loved one, just as the uncertain moment of sleep, it is already too late.
Death is a mirror. He is a heart attack, a gun, a screeching car. Death is a poison, a virus, an infected limb. He is teeth, a rope, fire, and water. He is two hands, a fall from great heights, sleeping pills, and exhaust. Death is sleep, dreams, fantasy. He is motorcycles, a bee sting, a cup of coffee, acceleration. A tow truck, the wind, arrhythmia is Death. He is electricity, a casual stroll, reading, and playing guitar. Death is a tornado, a pole vault, peanuts. He is music, a Sunday shower, weeding, and chewing the fat. He is a vacation, cocaine and valium. He is stairs, the sun, and the full moon. Death is armless, a coca bean, a landslide, and silence. Avalanche, rhythm, and stillness. Death is a parked car, the desert, a marathon, awake. He is eyes staring back at you.
Death crawls towards you. He creeps along, trembling eagerly. It is the vision we all fear: the large mass of black, nodding one of his infinite heads, teeth grossly blackened, his form only discerned by his white panting breath and by the myriad of shrieks from our ancestors; they abjectly warn us at once to keep away and beckon us to come. We are spared this noise throughout our lives. It whispers if we are lucky, so minutely that we cannot hear it until it blossoms as desire to sin. It reminds us of some eternal bosom we tasted from our childhood. The aftertaste – that is the soft undulating of our ancestors’ moans.
A woman lay with closed eyes… a man knelt beside the bed…
In the room were Life, Death, and Love.
“What have you given her?” questioned Death of Life.
“I brought her my best gifts,” answered Life, “youth, health, beauty, joy—and love.”
“Has Love brought her good gifts?” again asked Death.
Said Love with wistful eyes: “I brought her brave, bright hours, sunshine and laughter, happiness and glory in living and then a heavy cross. The sunshine she shed about her, even with the fading of Life’s glory; the cross hidden deep in her soul cast out self and made a new radiance and beauty there.”
“Let her come to me,” said Death. “Life had much to give, but peace and rest are not for Life to bestow. Love would give all, but must reckon with the human heart. I will crown and glorify and bless her.”
Life fled from the quiet room with a sigh and one whispered, tender word; but Love lingered, brave even in the full presence of Death.
“What of him?” said Love, pointing to the kneeling figure.
“He made the cross?” Death asked.
“Yes,” said Love weeping.
“We must teach him,” said Death, “what he could not learn from Life.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Epilogue:
I can’t look anymore. I watched too closely. I held his callused hand. It didn’t help, he didn’t wake up, he didn’t cry. I was afraid that he might open his eyes and scare me. I wished he had. I began getting anxious, but I lingered on in the room, staring at his face and his thinning hair. I noticed the shaved peak of his widow’s peak. I felt guilty. Most of my life with him was a miscommunication. Silence, it hummed and thickened. The lights buzzed, I swallowed saliva, and I heard my breath. He hadn’t any. Whose words aren’t susceptible to misunderstanding? How many things pass without say because fear of misunderstanding? And what kind of son am I if I can’t show him the man I have become? No longer can I linger on for his answers; he had given them to me, on a day long ago.
“perfumed and in flowing robe, with languid step and slow…” -Menander
Life is ice on a tilted plane of glass. It is measured by the rotations it makes before spilling over the edge.
Clouds loom above feigning Life. They taunt him and lure him out to what he believes is the good life, the wet earth. He crawls out onto the pavement to soak in the rain. When the gray overhang disappears, the worm, still lingering for another glimpse of Love, is pinned by the fatal rays of the sun.
Death is not who we expect. He is a coward. And he is insatiable. We picture him as patient, content on striking exactly when he deems appropriate; however, he lacks that mythological perfection we dream about. He is nervous and he often saunters in too soon. Upon his arrival, he is unable go through his procedure quickly: at a loss, he pecks our cheek and revolted, pecks the other, until he realizes the inevitable and timidly finishes his work. He often wishes he could die himself – so that he too could end meaning. He decided long ago that the significance behind his work wasn’t collecting souls, but that eventually, when everyone has passed through his lips, he would rest in peace.
Why is it that only the grieving cry? Shouldn’t the dying, too? Shouldn’t they be terrified of their shallow breath? Isn’t the nearness of Death overbearing? Maybe the grieving are envious of the dying? Perhaps the dying finally voice their subconscious feelings subconsciously as we, the grieving and dying, breathe in together, and out, in a final terse draw of breath?
Thirty white stones surround sixteen black stones. The black stones have one lung; it is worthless because it is false. Even with a real lung, the stones would die just as quickly. A group of stones need two lungs to live; or as the Japanese say, two eyes for Life. It’s balanced that way. ‘Dwell on the past and you’ll lose an eye, forget the past and you’ll lose both.’ In the end, the stones don’t struggle; they die quickly and, with the snap of a stone, are removed, leaving their imprint on the living.
In this Life, “live free or die”. That is the motto of a modern conservative state. How far we have strayed from the path our fathers built for us… us children who think that we know better. We should be embarrassed to have spoken against our fathers’ wishes. We should have let him die so that we wouldn’t have to continue speaking against his wishes, as if he’s there watching us as we rebel against invisible stone hands.
Walking on a bridge, I look out onto the river, stories below. A whisper of yellow light reflects on the river’s surface; a dapple of sun waves and I see the birth of heaven. Angels hovering, glowing tenderly, watching me as I pass; softly talking to each other. One extends his hand, another her hand and the golden reflection is no longer a path leading to the sun, but an extension of itself. I must leap off the bridge into the water. Death is the squall that will slow my fall; he is the cold water that will embrace me; and the angels are his face that will kiss me.
Why do you seek such little deaths? Why do you give up your dignity for this petite mort? Are you unsure of life? Or do you need Death, in some way, to go on living? What possesses you to seek vulnerability, when all your life you struggle against it? Is the dawning of Death’s beak and its closeness what keeps us asking for more?
Doesn’t suicide exist? I’ve poured over the newspaper stands for the evidence; I don’t see anything but a black-and-white Reaper sowing his wheat.
And I will die without a hope, a care, or a desire. Everything shall be for Death. Because today, I am unsure how to act; whether to sing or cry or roll. That I might have kicked the air during my youth, it is true that I fought the wild (the rocks and the trees) bare-fisted. And when that final breath dawns on me it will be revelatory and I will understand what Love truly is.
How does the sun rise over me every morning? What could possibly make my days rear forward into the arms of Life? How will I escape little deaths? What will sanctify me? How will I escape these industrial fields? Am I not trapped between misery and joyfulness? Am I not strung up to run back and forth between the heart’s yearnings and its billows? When will I stop needing a sunrise to verify the morning? Will cold oatmeal ever fill the meaning of my day?
Death is always past or always future. We cannot articulate now: when Death has taken our loved one, just as the uncertain moment of sleep, it is already too late.
Death is a mirror. He is a heart attack, a gun, a screeching car. Death is a poison, a virus, an infected limb. He is teeth, a rope, fire, and water. He is two hands, a fall from great heights, sleeping pills, and exhaust. Death is sleep, dreams, fantasy. He is motorcycles, a bee sting, a cup of coffee, acceleration. A tow truck, the wind, arrhythmia is Death. He is electricity, a casual stroll, reading, and playing guitar. Death is a tornado, a pole vault, peanuts. He is music, a Sunday shower, weeding, and chewing the fat. He is a vacation, cocaine and valium. He is stairs, the sun, and the full moon. Death is armless, a coca bean, a landslide, and silence. Avalanche, rhythm, and stillness. Death is a parked car, the desert, a marathon, awake. He is eyes staring back at you.
Death crawls towards you. He creeps along, trembling eagerly. It is the vision we all fear: the large mass of black, nodding one of his infinite heads, teeth grossly blackened, his form only discerned by his white panting breath and by the myriad of shrieks from our ancestors; they abjectly warn us at once to keep away and beckon us to come. We are spared this noise throughout our lives. It whispers if we are lucky, so minutely that we cannot hear it until it blossoms as desire to sin. It reminds us of some eternal bosom we tasted from our childhood. The aftertaste – that is the soft undulating of our ancestors’ moans.
A woman lay with closed eyes… a man knelt beside the bed…
In the room were Life, Death, and Love.
“What have you given her?” questioned Death of Life.
“I brought her my best gifts,” answered Life, “youth, health, beauty, joy—and love.”
“Has Love brought her good gifts?” again asked Death.
Said Love with wistful eyes: “I brought her brave, bright hours, sunshine and laughter, happiness and glory in living and then a heavy cross. The sunshine she shed about her, even with the fading of Life’s glory; the cross hidden deep in her soul cast out self and made a new radiance and beauty there.”
“Let her come to me,” said Death. “Life had much to give, but peace and rest are not for Life to bestow. Love would give all, but must reckon with the human heart. I will crown and glorify and bless her.”
Life fled from the quiet room with a sigh and one whispered, tender word; but Love lingered, brave even in the full presence of Death.
“What of him?” said Love, pointing to the kneeling figure.
“He made the cross?” Death asked.
“Yes,” said Love weeping.
“We must teach him,” said Death, “what he could not learn from Life.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Epilogue:
I can’t look anymore. I watched too closely. I held his callused hand. It didn’t help, he didn’t wake up, he didn’t cry. I was afraid that he might open his eyes and scare me. I wished he had. I began getting anxious, but I lingered on in the room, staring at his face and his thinning hair. I noticed the shaved peak of his widow’s peak. I felt guilty. Most of my life with him was a miscommunication. Silence, it hummed and thickened. The lights buzzed, I swallowed saliva, and I heard my breath. He hadn’t any. Whose words aren’t susceptible to misunderstanding? How many things pass without say because fear of misunderstanding? And what kind of son am I if I can’t show him the man I have become? No longer can I linger on for his answers; he had given them to me, on a day long ago.
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