a few month ago, back in june i posted the above, warning, '...we don't wake up at Chez Hunter — we "come to"...' and went on to say further '...it'd be best — for me and thee — to remember this, for our protection and the good of our future friendships and long may they wave. like, think of it as a precaution so y'all won't be able to say i never warned you...' and yet another helpful hint:
this was all brought to mind when i opened new mailz last night. The Usual Suspects had checked in (and thank fuck for that — means less Valium-popping on my part and lord, do i hate wasting drugs even though i can always get Sod to do my bidding by doing same)... um. where were we again? right, new mailz, especially one in particular from Xina, Pagan Princess who told me a story in line with one of our fave topics of discussion: Death and Dying.
Stephen King, in 'The Journals of Eleanor Druse' by Eleanor Druse (AKA Stephen King) 'speaks about the UNSPEAKABLE HORROR OF CONSCIOUSNESS — it reminded me of you ... in this paragraph he writes as Eleanor Druse an older lady who passed out and she's code blue and the DRs are trying to revive her but she doesn't want to return to the real world...'
no duh, Xina — why am i not surprised? hmmpf... anyway, she went on quoting from the book: 'Being dead was the best thing that ever happened to me. Death was better than the book, better than the movie, better than all those philosophical speculations and theological revelations I'd read about in college. Too bad there was no way to send back word to all of those insipid flatlanders who think that the human soul is nothing more than static given off by brain cells. Alert! Incoming from freshly dead Sally Druse" You materialists are sorely mistaken.
'Instead of the Big Nothing, I was pleased to discover an afterlife of deliciously dreamless eternal rest. It was too dark to tell if I had a body, but if I did, it felt as if I were submerged and drifting in a vast starless sea of warm black amniotic fluid. Not a care disturbed me, and I seemed to have just enough sightless awareness to enjoy the bliss of suspended animation without the unpleasantness of actual cognition. For the first time, here or hereafter, being was effortless; uncomplicated by memory, apprehension, guilt, loneliness, or pain. All the restorative benefits of deep sleep were mine, with none of the nightmares or waking fears — just an endless slow-motion falling through deep space to the sea of tranquillity.
'By some miracle, I was able to revel in this beatific state without quite being conscious of it. Instead, I seemed always on the verge of thinking, without ever rupturing the limen of what my philisosophy professors had called apperception — the mental act in which the mind becomes aware of itself perceiving. Let that old Greek pederast Socrates prattle on about how the unreflective life is not worth living. This was unreflection at its finest, and it was a garden of vegetable raptures compared with the life I'd lived on earth'.
now, being totally self-absorbed, i've been navel-gazing (and writing it down) since i was like 4 or so but WHY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I WANNIT TO STOP? i don't do it cause i like it, i do it cause i fucking can't help it! — damn! }-(
'Then I felt the tingle of a memory trace ... and it was almost as if I'd wrecked it all by enjoying it. Had I somehow stepped outside of the delicious mindlessness of the afterlife by savoring it? Sensations followed. My dreamy half-executed velleities became full-blown volitions. I moved an eyelid, then a finger, and then the UNSPEAKABLE HORROR OF CONSCIOUSNESS loomed on the horizon like a gathering thunderhead.
'Mother of Mary, I was headed back! Maybe the heat lightning of awareness flickering in the distance was just my leftover cortical static. Maybe if I kept my eyes closed and was careful not to breathe or move, I could slip back under the waves and descend again into that warm infinite blackness, forever.
'But no — I bobbed and resurfaced. I heard sounds; beeping noises, rhythmic hissing, voices. Air filled my lungs, even when I tried not to breathe. Unwanted mental events kept disturbing my aimless reveries of death...'
then i got mail from Christine (the two of em know each other, in a Pagan-y way, actually) who, amongst the lovely depressing-to-most-but-not-us thoughts she imparted, went on to write:
'...Back to black thoughts and the abyss — Was lying in bed last night thinking about Death and all the people that had died ...'
tell me about it, Christine! after over a hundred of my gay friends died between 1980 and 1985 cause Ronald Raygun didn't fucking recognise AIDs, instead of counting sheep, i go through the list of my dead friends... starting in 1972, with that feeling that millionaire, my BF's bro-in-law, Michael Brody, what his death did to me, i know you know where i'm coming from and the fucked-up thing was, they were all my closest friends. and that shit was on top of the depression due to Cover-Up Lowdown and the entire Kennedy thing. hang on, i'm wittering. OK, for those reasons and more
more proof there ain't no loving god cause if there were, he woulda got me the fuck outta here already. he sure had plenty of chances to do it (the countless downers and heroin ODs, the countless shooting-speed over-amping fuck-ups, that time i shot too much cocaine and
'...seems like death is creeping around and you never know who'll be next. Well, I started off thinking about Tony; where is he etc., he was here — now he's not, then that went on to Greg, Phyllis' husband (he beat the cancer but he's dying from all the radiation); Phyllis said he won't last 6 months. Then I started thinking about all the ppl I'd known ... just in the last 7 years I'd lived here; those who'd died.
'Not old ppl either. The assistant manager got hit by a car at a red light, DEAD; my neighbour's daughter 21 yrs old (hit by a drunk driver) and her BF, both dead; my neighbour across the street (who just moved out; she's 44 and divorced: her 22 yr old son got killed in a diving accident in Arizona. The friend who got us in here in the first place: DEAD now (but he was 77). Plus the couple at the House of Death* and their daughter. I mean, percentages-wise, it seems that many ppl don't have to wait for old age to die...'
*House of Death folks keep Teh Dead Girl's room like a shrine (20 years!) and their personal lives have taken a decidedly downward spiral after their daughter left em, which is normal but after so long? D is for Dead. also for Depressed. and for Denial. anyway, many ppl don't have to wait for old age to die?' WHY DO WE? yeah, 'Life's unfair, go tell someone who gives a shit' — as i can practically hear TPFKAPM saying like he did all the times i complained about being here. back to Christine:
'...Then there's (my bro's former band-mate) Paul Fox and Kirsty McColl ... When you think about it there's quite a lot of ppl caught by death creeping around, but because it doesn't happen all at once (like in a war) we don't think about how it's all around us waiting to pounce. Like they always say at funerals (that I saw on TV) "in the midst of life we are in death"... or whatever...'
'Maybe death is the real world or something — I wish I could figure it all out...'
yeah, you're not the only one. i just wanna fast ticket outta here, a single, a one-way and get ON with it already, cause since i was a kid i always looked upon my miserable existence here on Earth as like a pit-stop before the real deal which may or may not be better — and IMO, 'nothing' is better — i always imagined that was either Death or somewhere else off-planet. i'm with Lightenin' Hopkins, actually (i wish!): Death Bells.
fuck... i'm (still) wait-ting, goddammit. *taps foot impatiently* and *glares* in the direction of an uncaring Universe. hah — if only!
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