death becomes us...
August 22nd 2007 12:22
I guess death becomes us all, in a way...
if death was actually an entity, like the Grim Reaper, would he have a sincere smile, as he stood at the door to greet you?
I wonder what it is like; when the dying see our discomfort, quietly suffer our faux pas, put up with inane chit chat designed to steer around the obvious, the pretending of 'all is well', see you next week...but in the eyes...the quandary hangs for the perceptive to see...maybe...
then you leave, you stand and walk, they remain in bed, staring up at you, watching your body perform most rudimentary actions without assistance, without stumbling or wavering, without an oxygen supply tank...
I wonder do they compare, do they wish, do they just stare vacantly between moments of interaction, fragments of the old humour, personality, snapping like the click of fingers startling the pre-mourners, then gone again...do they not care, when your back faces them, as you retreat through the hospital door, do they wish to call out...damn it take me with you....don't leave me here, don't let me die...for GOD'S SAKE SAAAVE MEEE!!!
I wonder....yet, one day I will know....so will we all...unless it is quick, and not slow and gruelling, like my dear friend Dimitri....slow and gruelling...eyes rolling backwards mid-sentence never ended, morphia gently asphyxiating his frontal lobes...the drug of dreaming...are we in there...playing and laughing...driving...joking smoking drugging drinking...are we...are you happy...when you wake with a jolt...or does reality knife your humour heartless, for the dream is not the reality...
I promised to help him publish his book....I promised to study his writing...I promised to help write about his lost girlfriend from Java, I promised to return this weekend, I promised to have something to show, to share to make his spirit grow I thought to myself, a tiny life-less-line, an un-life-buoy, one without saviour, a token redemption, momentary release, a tincture of hope is all I can offer...
am I able...am I up to this...to the inevitable...to seeing a project not realized, to see his eyes wander across my face in wonder, to know it takes months and months and months to write a stage show and cast it and find a venue and also find a backer...impossible....
so again I am thrust onto the god-nature of amateurs, who try, bless them, some drop out, some are not up to it, but there is no one else, so they stay...
I wanted to complete it so he could see it...I staged it in my mind as I drove back up the mountain...my tribute...his life...and feelings...and they give him one week to live....
and me....no libretto writing since 1997-98, no stage production since 1998...no contacts here anymore, have I given false hope grown out of false pride, promises pummelling the hospital air, a loquacious lust for admiration and bonhomie...grovelling for gratitude....have I become worse than the awkward visitor who talks inanities about the weather and next week's game...am I designing to fail...can I do it...am I capable...or will I crush whatever he has left in spirit, by producing utter crap...or nothing at all...or nothing at all...
his good friends....they wary eyed me...most of mine dead...so I stand to lose another soon....
my ego-brittle agape, afeared and accommodating, exteriorly: confidently promising the world, interiorly: an hysteria brooding in a menacing quietude...that stabbing place...where hearts rent by sharp shards of razoring regret, bleed a cross-weave stitch of grief relief...
_____________________________ _____________________________ _____________
sorry if you read this far...this is a stream of consciousness...maybe an exorcism of self...I should have kept it to myself...but here it is....because there is no one else...
fog
if death was actually an entity, like the Grim Reaper, would he have a sincere smile, as he stood at the door to greet you?
I wonder what it is like; when the dying see our discomfort, quietly suffer our faux pas, put up with inane chit chat designed to steer around the obvious, the pretending of 'all is well', see you next week...but in the eyes...the quandary hangs for the perceptive to see...maybe...
then you leave, you stand and walk, they remain in bed, staring up at you, watching your body perform most rudimentary actions without assistance, without stumbling or wavering, without an oxygen supply tank...
I wonder do they compare, do they wish, do they just stare vacantly between moments of interaction, fragments of the old humour, personality, snapping like the click of fingers startling the pre-mourners, then gone again...do they not care, when your back faces them, as you retreat through the hospital door, do they wish to call out...damn it take me with you....don't leave me here, don't let me die...for GOD'S SAKE SAAAVE MEEE!!!
I wonder....yet, one day I will know....so will we all...unless it is quick, and not slow and gruelling, like my dear friend Dimitri....slow and gruelling...eyes rolling backwards mid-sentence never ended, morphia gently asphyxiating his frontal lobes...the drug of dreaming...are we in there...playing and laughing...driving...joking smoking drugging drinking...are we...are you happy...when you wake with a jolt...or does reality knife your humour heartless, for the dream is not the reality...
I promised to help him publish his book....I promised to study his writing...I promised to help write about his lost girlfriend from Java, I promised to return this weekend, I promised to have something to show, to share to make his spirit grow I thought to myself, a tiny life-less-line, an un-life-buoy, one without saviour, a token redemption, momentary release, a tincture of hope is all I can offer...
am I able...am I up to this...to the inevitable...to seeing a project not realized, to see his eyes wander across my face in wonder, to know it takes months and months and months to write a stage show and cast it and find a venue and also find a backer...impossible....
so again I am thrust onto the god-nature of amateurs, who try, bless them, some drop out, some are not up to it, but there is no one else, so they stay...
I wanted to complete it so he could see it...I staged it in my mind as I drove back up the mountain...my tribute...his life...and feelings...and they give him one week to live....
and me....no libretto writing since 1997-98, no stage production since 1998...no contacts here anymore, have I given false hope grown out of false pride, promises pummelling the hospital air, a loquacious lust for admiration and bonhomie...grovelling for gratitude....have I become worse than the awkward visitor who talks inanities about the weather and next week's game...am I designing to fail...can I do it...am I capable...or will I crush whatever he has left in spirit, by producing utter crap...or nothing at all...or nothing at all...
his good friends....they wary eyed me...most of mine dead...so I stand to lose another soon....
my ego-brittle agape, afeared and accommodating, exteriorly: confidently promising the world, interiorly: an hysteria brooding in a menacing quietude...that stabbing place...where hearts rent by sharp shards of razoring regret, bleed a cross-weave stitch of grief relief...
_____________________________ _____________________________ _____________
sorry if you read this far...this is a stream of consciousness...maybe an exorcism of self...I should have kept it to myself...but here it is....because there is no one else...
fog
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Comment by Lily
Ars Poetica
i am sitting here, slackjawed
aching, and as lost for words as you are
~Lily
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Screen Trek
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
fog
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
Im here and listening....For merely a train of thought this was visceral and cutting and heartfelt yet poetic too.....
The dead cannot worry about the living. If they decide to stick around, it is only for comfort. Over there, small things do not matter. Worry not, for you are capable of any task....
Blogging is incredibly good for catharsis.
Comment by Mountain Fog
Infognito
Screen Trek
QUOTE ME NO QUOTES!
indeed...I just re-read it then, but that is what happens when something really powerful is building inside, you're right, it is cathartic, but also can be deeply self destructive if I do not stop and walk away from the 'flow' for awhile.
It has one benefit creatively as I forget to be overly self- conscious about what I am writing, so it flows out, then calm down and go back and adjust all the mistakes.
Anyhoo, thanks for your support, and for your positive attitude to the situation and your faith in me being able to get the project together...I do not feel as much panic today, but yet to begin work on it...am about to now..
cheers
fog
Comment by Kleonaptra
Kalikapsychosis
Comment by D. Armenta
The Florida Keys and Everglades
The Black Sheep Chronicles
What constitutes bad manners?
The male mystique
Debate Fan
L.A.M.P.
Don't let your very human fear of failure stop you on this..this is about him now, he wants to be remembered and he wants someone he's close to to listen to the telling.