Leaving is very much last death, an announced death at least, in the sense that you are conscious that you are doing each thing “for the last time” and that you are going, in some sense, somewhere no one else will follow you, since you are usually going there without everyone.
This may not make perfect sense but it is exactly what I feel like at this very moment. My perfect evening with Adventure Buddy Number One (even going to the dump with her would be fantastically fun) was the last evening. This was my last String Quartet-make-me-cry-but-I’ll-still-love-you evening. Last month was my last Holy Day commemoration, this was my last rainbow, etc.
So I’m basically marking this departure as if announcing my own death to me. I’m dramatic, I think of writing it as I’m leaving it, so it’s momentous, even if in my own head, which helps because no one else is paying attention to my life.
Everyone is as usual too busy.
Which is fine, at the moment. It gives me a lot of writing latitude, a lot to work with, or as I like to say recently, “I’m getting a lot of mileage out of this.” For someone who is a pedestrian at heart, it’s funny to be using such a car-centric expression. I think I’ve been using it twice a day. If I was talking to the same person all the time, they’d have hit me over the head already. But then again, maybe everyone doesn’t see conversations as typed-up dialogue so the repetition isn’t painful. I don’t mind so much.
Oh. Departure as death. Yeah, well, that’s basically it. I’m making it interesting for myself. The only thing I’m not really doing is going to the Shrines for the last time. The Shrines are so perfect that I can close my eyes, and with some concentration I’m there perfectly. The soft carpet, the subdued lights, the warm atmosphere, this many steps before the Threshold where I leave my worries, and put my forehead to pay my respects.
How can you forget the womb of the world, really?
But I feel light about this departure, maybe this is what old age will be like, when you’ve lived so long that you’re welcoming the end of it. When it’s time, it’s time. I just wish I didn’t have to pack. This is one advantage death would have over leaving: no need to pack bags.
The worst thing to do, incidentally, is pack boxes of books. I should know, I’ve packed three in the last few days, and it SO FRUSTRATING. I think I would rather alphabetize crayola crayons (from the super-size box).
From least to most, this is the order in which I’d like to do “crappy things I would hate to do”:
-Pick lice off an obese gorilla with a gland problem
-Be a free-lance writer for the magazine “Life Without Intestines”
So there you have it. But I suppose I should stop there with my comparison of dying and packing because I’m sure that there are some dead people who would rather be packing and some people who’ve died while packing and so, when I place myself in this scheme of things, I guess it’s not so bad to try to fit 40 books of 39 different sizes into a box lined with an orange garbage bag. OVER AND OVER AGAIN TO SEE HOW YOU CAN MINIMIZE THE STUPID GAPS IN BETWEEN THE DUMB-THOUGH-INANIMATE BOOKS.
Great idea number 27 in the shower this morning: I should sell the books I’m never going to read. And the CD’s I’m never going to listen to.
Reality post-implementation of idea number 27: There is only one book I own that I will not ever want to read, and four CD’s.
B I G W H O O P.
That made no difference at all.
Anyway. At least packing is giving me something to write about. Even if it’s as deep as a puddle, it’s the breadth of the human experience that unites all people in a common hatred.
It’s always much easier to unite people against a common hatred. No one likes to have a rotting molar extracted without anesthetic.