Musings on Death & Life -- More mushroom induced cranial flatulance

 

How each person deals with the knowledge of death is a personal choice. There are the steadfast optimists, "death deniers," impenetrable fortresses of joy and hope, who never even look at their watches, much less acknowledge the other side of the equation of life and death. The truth is that life and death cancel each other out, and the equation has a zero sum. The sum total of "all that is" is neither positive or negative, since death is always followed by rebirth, but all life ends in death. The question is: What is the constant? What continues?  Did the egg produce the chicken, or was it the other way around?

The submarine in "On The Beach" reminds me of the cycle of birth and death. When the submarine surfaces, consciousness comes into the world anew, like a baby from the womb or trees sending out buds in the spring. It is incarnation, hope, rebirth. The submarine submerging is the death of consciousness, going off into the oblivion of the inky blackness. What happens in the interim is just a playing out of the hand one is dealt, making the best of a tenuous and ultimately untenable situation. 

I always thought of the song "Down By The Seaside" was written about the movie "On The Beach" because of the reference to people going sailing, or racing, there being no time left. It reminded me about how the people in the movie sought diversion while waiting for the cloud of nuclear fallout to eventually wipe out their little idyllic existence. Ikuru, in the titular film, sought to leave behind a legacy in the form of a little park where the neighborhood children could play. Noble enough cause, I guess. What else can a terminally ill bureaucrat do with his few remaining days? Gambling and whores are so cliche. 

The people in "On The Beach" engage in various activities, but in the end, they face a death which occurs off-screen. There are no dead bodies littering the streets, but it is assumed, like Tony Soprano's cut to black at the show's finale. One can debate that Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" is telling the viewer to have faith, perhaps there will be a season 7. Oh, well, he's alive as long as we remember him, right? James Gandolfini, the actor, is dead, though, flesh decomposing somewhere, whacked by a heart attack.

Buddhists say that change is the only constant, permanence is an illusion. Nothingness, the void, is the backdrop or canvass upon which all of our lives are painted. But the paint isn't durable, the picture fades, and new coats of paint are applied, covering all but the faintest traces of remembrance of the previous images. The TV set goes black, but it can be turned back on. The program ends, but there is always another. The broadcast day comes to a close with the national anthem, but after the test pattern, the color bars and then, finally, the fuzzy static of dead air, a new broadcast day eventually commences, the cycle of birth and death.

What goes on during the hours of programming is just the meandering musings of the subconscious, a dream to fill the empty space, a little light in between two eternal darknesses. Everything has an end, though. The lifetime of the match is brief, but there are always more matches. Until, that is, one comes to the end of the pack. Then who will light the candle against the darkness? The end of the cosmic game, if there is one, is a mystery. Will the circle be unbroken? Everything we see and know about the universe is finite, if only by calculation. Entropy wins. 

But somehow, out of nothing, this whole thing began, postulates the good ol' Big Bang Theory. Creation ex nihilo gives the God, the eternal constant, credit for birthing all that is. But what is God? Is it just another name for the Void? Out of death, springs life. But nothingness isn't death. Nothingness contains birth, death, dreams and consciousness. It is the container, the picket fence around our existence. I know nothing of this, because nothing can be known about nothing. 

Logic cannot solve the infinite mystery. Logic leads one to the conclusion that life is a joke, a game, a riddle to which one may make up any answer that suits one's mood. There is no cosmic lawmaker, no absolute authority to decide the meaningfulness or meaninglessness of life. Life just happens to be, and we are here for a spell, so deal with it. Live it, love it, or hate it and jump ship. It doesn't matter. Is the cat alive or dead or both? How about neither? The cat is a dream, an illusion. We are all just dreaming, but let's just go along with it. What else can we do? 

I can't sleep because I took some mushrooms along with my caffeine and cannabis today. I spent the day fiddling with my guitar, making various sounds, some pleasing, some unpleasing, but ultimately, just a diversion to pass the time until my clock runs out. Might as well do with thy hand, whatever it is that it finds to do; whether it be plucking a guitar or jacking off, it's all equally meaningful or meaningless. Who cares if the wind blows from the south or from the east? The leaves still fall from the trees. Hitler and Gandhi walk into a bar. They both bump their heads.

I love the steadfastness of White's allegiance to death in "The Sunset Limited." Pick a side, take a position. You might as well. That's what life is all about, right? Even if one chooses darkness and hopelessness, the very decision to opt out is an action, a move on the chessboard. The Waltzing Matilda, death, cannot be escaped, only danced with; and dance we must. The rest is window dressing. What comes after, if anything, is not for us to know. Maybe it's all light, maybe all darkness. Maybe some part of us remains, like the soul, but perhaps even the soul gets old and listless and dies eventually. 

I'm all over the place. It sounded better in my head. I'm like Black: "You gave him the words, but what about me?" I want to make my case, but the case for nothing requires no defense. I think I'll just go back to sleep. Maybe I'll wake up, maybe I'll emerge from the hibernation of winter, from the slumber which is my training for the ultimate sleep. Maybe not. A caterpillar never knows whether or not the alarm clock will wake him up.

So steer a course
A course for nowhere
And drop the anchor
My little Empire
I'm going nowhere