Cobalt!
I believe you have stayed pretty close to the surface in your two posts.
This is not said critically, only objectively.
Something in your previous post pricked beneath the skin, I guess it had to do with High and Low Positions.
The response I made to this was as deep as I have ever gone in public. I don't mean profound. I mean into letting the guts show.
I've been to a Jewish food and gab thing after a death. It seemed to be quite orderly and well-intentioned. The survivers were sort of 'touching' each other.
Also went to an open-casket (full of bier?) Catholic thing. Whee! You are supposed to look at the doctored-up corpse and do something. I went out, immediately, to a nearby bar and got drunk. Not because of the body. But because of the idea that there was such absurd reverence bestowed on a pumped up, painted, and prettified mass of dead cells.
I blushed not in a good old-fashioned physical expression of shock or untimeliness. I blushed, in this present example, because I had done a stupid thing, my postscript, that made me ashamed of myself. That doesn't rate high on the dignity scale.
The main point, rotting: How far do the inner yearnings for immortality go, when the frame of the essence has been destroyed? This one gives me concern. Like, I have sworn to myself that I will never use a cane, or a walker, or allow myself to get into a situation where you shit through your stomach into a bag (colo-something). If my support fails to support me, I will deny it, my support, my support. (That sentence makes sense if scrupulously parsed.)
Let me do a story that I believe I did on penni's line years ago. There was this waffle shop on the outter edges of this college town. It advertised, in the college paper, that "The Waffles Are Worth The Walk." And they were.
When does it happen that the waffles are not worth the walk?
This lady, this morning, that I walked 1.9 miles to see, and the same distance back, after seeing, was a walking 'Coach' from Oxford Health Care, which I have joined the first of this month. Now, the average person walks at about the rate of three or a little more miles per hour. This feeble Coach did, at best, one-half to three-quarters of a mile per hour - and it was a strain on her.
She had progressed well into the process of rotting.
When, in heaven(!), does the spirit have to admit it is not being supported by the flesh?
I am babbling. I will stop. I believe there are real questions about how far we should go to avoid the inevitable. But all my thoughts are turned mushy when translated through the keyboard at this particular time - and for reasons I am unaware of.
Forget this post, please,
geo. |
