You’ll know by now that i tend to have the oddest conversations in sl. A recent shining example of this was a conversation i shared with a friend, during which we considered what we might write if we were to compose our own obituaries.
Death is a subject that, by and large, doesn’t bother me that much. As poet, Steve Turner, astutely points out in his poem ‘Death Lib’: ‘The thing about dead, Is we’re all gonna be it.’ – like income tax, Lego bricks on the bedroom floor, and health and safety nazis, it’s both impossible to avoid and inevitable. The best that one can hope for is that it happens to us later, rather than sooner.
We do tend to fuss around the subject though and treat it a bit like the granny we keep in the attic but never talk about, and i’m sure that’s not always a healthy way to go through life. In fact, having fairly recently experienced my own ‘near death experience’ – which came rather nearer to being permanent than i would have wished – i’ve had plenty of opportunity to dwell on the subject and come to my own – sometimes disturbing – conclusions.
It is a part of the rich pageant of which we partake that we seldom think about, unless we have good reason to, and even then in only the weightiest and most sombre manner, whereas i tend to think about it in much the same terms as i’d think of cheese or marigolds.
Which brings me rather untidily to today’s Alt. life: offering – Pushing up daisies, (or perhaps that should be Alt. death:?) – catch you on the flipside.
When my day has come and I lie beneath the dirt
People gather smiles wide and poor booze upon the earth
They’ll remember all the good times but only talk about the bad
They’ll drink or say whatever it takes to keep from getting sad
Far From Finished – The Bastard’s Way