A note of assisstance with death and change.

It was not more than five years since he died. It took an indefinite period of time too stop crying, to stop feeling guilty, to try too regain that ever elusive notion of equilibrium between events and understanding. A little history here is necessary to help the reader relate, at this point. Father was 53 when he died. At first all the normal, evaisive terms of reference appeared liberally, such as, "passed away", "passed on", even during some periods of attempted joviality, "pushing up daises". It seemed to take a life time to say dead. But he was. It seemed obvious. This fabulous man, all ceremony, "misapplied" intelligences, all duty and strength, lay strewn between the bathroom and the hallway, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms and a vague look of pained surprise. On his cheek, running from his mouth, a small dribble of vomit punctuated the death of his dignity. The effects cast shock waves through the writers mind like no other experience ever had, or has since. The absolute assault on reality was so unimaginably vast, somehow, although his death seemed inevitable, (as some would all of ours do), the actuality of the event jarred so fully with normality that all things came into question. No certainty appeared to be left free of doubt after his death. At this point a stern warning should be issued. During these periods of utter emotional and interlectual insicurity the individual is unpresidently open to sugestion. At that point the writer, up until then a hardened atheist, would have embraced any religious notion that had seemingly proved irrevocably that Dad's "soul" or "personality" would endure beyond the grave, or even merely given reason to his life. Fortune would have it that a preist or some such "representative" was not on hand, instead a marvelously cunning exponent of that ever so blind "operation mind fuck" manifested its selves. Regardless we wonder from the point. A personal truth is to be made apparent. Since his death, life has been interesting. Never, before then, could any of life's "cruel" experiences be properly assimilated. Issues from the past, having endured an abusive childhood, failing to achieve life goals, hurting others and the guilt this encored, excessive drink and drug use, the estrangement from mother, childish anger, hatred, desire, all the stress and fear, and every other medal had allways governed life and permitted the development and perpetuation of a weighty victim mentality. Now they are beautiful mealy because they are. It would appear that the differentiation between "good/positive/constructive" experience and "bad/negative/de-constructive" experience, can only be reconciled, that is to say, return to its base or route form, "experience", when the end of the acquisition of experience can be conceived. Only when death is encountered, when ones one demise can be felt and considered can life can be appreciated mealy for its own sake. With out death life seems sterile, or infected depending on which seems less appealing to you. With out death life tastes like shit or mashed potato depending on your taste. And conversely the same can be said. It seems so beautiful that this was the last insight in a long list that strong, weak, and beautiful man donated. Many thanks for all Sarge, even for the bad bits. x x