[Image: Illustration by W. Heath Robinson, from Rudyard Kipling’s A Song of the English (1909). (Found it at the Internet Archive.)]
From whiskey river:
Afterlife
There is no life after death. Why
should there be. What onearth would have us believe this.
Heaven is not the Americanhighway, blackened chicken alfredo
from Applebee’s nor theclown sundae from Friendly’s. Our
life, this is the afterdeath,when we blink open, peeled and
ready to ache. Years agomy aunt banged on the steering, she
insisted there had to be aGod, a heaven. We were on our
way to a wedding. I wouldhave to sit at the same table as the
man who saw no heavenin me. Today I am thinking about
Mozart, of all people, whodied at 35 mysteriously, perhaps of
strep. What a strange clothit is to live. But that we came from
death and return to it, madedifferent by form, shaped again back
into anti-, anti-. On my run,I think of Jack Gilbert, who said we
must insist while there is stilltime, but insist toward what. Why we
must fill the void with light—isn’t that our human insistence? But
we drift into a distance ofdistance until proximity fails, our
name lifts away with anyfuture concerns, the past a flattened
coin that cannot spin. I ammatter spun from death’s wool—and
I bewilder the itch, I who amI am just so happy to go.
(Natalie Eilbert [source])
…and:
Often we feel time to be linear, inexorable, suffocating. At other moments we find it oceanic. We kind of swim in it. We expect physicists to come up with an explanation, but we don’t find one, and come back to our intuitive use of the concept. But there are also moments when time appears to be, to say it in one way, both vertical and horizontal, both “single-minded,” monotonous, unalterable, and multi-dimensional, infinite. When a few people come together, I often have wondered if each person’s amount of years was not being added to the amount of years of all the others, so that we were representing together much more than our single self. And if you add up the simultaneous ages of people, animals, plants, objects, the age of celestial bodies and so on, you realize that we are living in the unfolding of the infinite. But why bother? I think because we need to keep in mind the immensity of being, in spite of our fragility and mortality.
(Etel Adnan [no canonical source])
…and:
Apologia Pro Vita Sua
III
(excerpt)It’s good to know certain things:
What’s departed, in order to know what’s left to come;
That water’s immeasurable and incomprehensibleAnd blows in the air
Where all that’s fallen and silent becomes invisible;
That fire’s the light our names are carved in.That shame is a garment of sorrow;
That time is the Adversary, and stays sleepless and wants for nothing;
That clouds are unequal and words are.
(Charles Wright [source])