I was actually figuring over the last couple days on dying, but then last night, over the phone from Solo, Java, Louis basically disallowed the thing. So this morning, it is back to living
I am her rock, she tells me.
And a rock feels no pain.
And an island never cries.
I was even going to write a blow-by-blow narrative of my personal death process, which readers, I am fairly certain, will be glad to have avoided.
I will say that my first concern (and please excuse he general haze f fever active here) was for what would be done with my corpse, once discovered, and who would do it. Admittedly, I have long had an unhealthy fixation on the career of my corpse once I have shed the mortal coil, which at the same time I understand to be ridiculous, for, being dead, I would no longer be aware of my former existence in the physical world nor of the corpse itself. I remember one time in the old Renon house when I reckoned I was about to die for one reason for another and that my consuming concern was for whether Sparky the dog, were I left too long rotting, would eat me. (And, as far as I recall, I didn't even have a fever at that time).
The thing is, where I live right now, no one knows who I am, or who I may belong to if indeed I belong to anybody. My only reliable contact, really, is Louis, and she refuses to come here because she doesn't like the skinny roads. So what to do? Leave a note somewhere on prominent display in my room? For corpse removal, please contact Louis (phone number and business hours).
I know who belongs to me. All those I have ever loved. But who do I myself belong to?
Well.
My second concern was for an identification of just what had killed me. I mean, I would really like to know (knowing, once again, that given the circumstances, I would not know in any case). Fever? Flu? Infection? That's not enough. That would be like being satisfied, after a murder investigation, with the vague conclusion that Someone did it.
So, I took a little walk this morning--a very short walk--and sat on a rock at the top of the street, and watched motorbikes go by, some of the people waving. I am here, after all. They see me. I took a couple of photos to prove me. (Although, come to think of it, the photos do not picture me).
I am her rock, she tells me.
And a rock feels no pain.
And an island never cries.
I was even going to write a blow-by-blow narrative of my personal death process, which readers, I am fairly certain, will be glad to have avoided.
I will say that my first concern (and please excuse he general haze f fever active here) was for what would be done with my corpse, once discovered, and who would do it. Admittedly, I have long had an unhealthy fixation on the career of my corpse once I have shed the mortal coil, which at the same time I understand to be ridiculous, for, being dead, I would no longer be aware of my former existence in the physical world nor of the corpse itself. I remember one time in the old Renon house when I reckoned I was about to die for one reason for another and that my consuming concern was for whether Sparky the dog, were I left too long rotting, would eat me. (And, as far as I recall, I didn't even have a fever at that time).
The thing is, where I live right now, no one knows who I am, or who I may belong to if indeed I belong to anybody. My only reliable contact, really, is Louis, and she refuses to come here because she doesn't like the skinny roads. So what to do? Leave a note somewhere on prominent display in my room? For corpse removal, please contact Louis (phone number and business hours).
I know who belongs to me. All those I have ever loved. But who do I myself belong to?
Well.
My second concern was for an identification of just what had killed me. I mean, I would really like to know (knowing, once again, that given the circumstances, I would not know in any case). Fever? Flu? Infection? That's not enough. That would be like being satisfied, after a murder investigation, with the vague conclusion that Someone did it.
So, I took a little walk this morning--a very short walk--and sat on a rock at the top of the street, and watched motorbikes go by, some of the people waving. I am here, after all. They see me. I took a couple of photos to prove me. (Although, come to think of it, the photos do not picture me).
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