Crossing The Moment

Now in a personal sense, how do you, live with death? I’m not necessarily speaking of “the final act”; that is, complete cessation of all processes vital to physical life. That is, of course (in my view) simply the climax of the grand theatrical manoeuvre that is “life”; an element that lies in mutual bond with the common thread of all scenes, acts, intermissions and all fanfare otherwise. This final act is, I believe, death in event. But that’s not in question here. What I’m asking is this: how do you, or how do I...how do we, in fact, learn to cope with the everyday, fundamental routine of crossing...well...the moment you just did? *chuckles*. I’m serious...how do we do it?

Death...and everything is death in process, if not death in event. And everything, therefore, is on a grand pilgrimage toward that final act of death. Life ...what is life then, if not the process of death? So back to my question: how do you cope with the crossing, or passing, of each moment of life, or each moment in procession towards death? Clear? No. So let’s refine that.

How do you cope with the reality of living death? Of dying...now? Of constantly surrendering each moment to history...to the past...against your will? For that is, in process, the very essence of dying, and being dead. You can’t change the fact that after 60 seconds of 11:59pm, shall emerge 12:00am...and tomorrow. Well, today actually. For today has died within in the arms of tomorrow...his corpse, is yesterday. You can’t change that. And so with 11:59 of yesterday, you too, have expired. You died. There is nought of you but a remnant memory, at 12. And all that exists at 12, is the you of 12. You can’t change that.

And yet, it seems, there isn’t much ado about this everyday, momentuous matter of dying. Well the trauma isn’t obvious, at least. Perhaps until we first come to reckon that obvious signal of the flesh having endured its time - the sparse greying of scalp; the wrinkle; the crouching gait; the memory gaps, a visit by Arthur; and hope, ever growing, in design of the wheelchair. Otherwise, it would seem, we casually...passively almost...cross over each moment. Perhaps we do, subconsciously, acknowledge that we simply cannot grow, and advance ourselves, unless we let go of the now of our existence. Or...i don’t know; perhaps there was a time when we all were in fact aware (consciously) that every passing moment was death. And perhaps, there was a time when that prospect of death, absolutely terrified us. But apart from those afflicted by some pathological aspect of anxiety, or depression, the reality of dying here, now, and then with each moment in passage...is to most human beings not nearly worth a second’s thought! We’re completely fine with, and generally oblivious of, the dying of now.

And that is, essentially, the most painless approach to the problem of the final act. When we fail to acknowledge death, the event, as a mutual moment in threadlink of the whole theatrical encounter, we give space to anxiety, and doubt, and mistrust...fear of death. And a mortified outlook of that sort is most prominent when life is taken in segments; compartmemts; diced and sliced in every attempt to impose order and steadform to a journey we know so little about. Of life, too often, we calculate, dissect and simplify. And so, to the degree that we are no longer able to appreciate, or understand, how the final act is connected to it all. And this, really, is the problem. *chuckles*. If we acknowledge, simply, that to die is to cross the moment of now, and that the last act is no stranger to the script of now, then we understand that life, is death. How about that? We can rest, now. :)

Death...and everything is death in process, if not death in event.