Reaching Out

Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to die?

No, it's not me being suicidal, just clinical curiousity - what IS it like to die? Is it like a big white light which more or less constantly shines in your eye or is it something more like when we're asleep and we go through a series of dreams? Or just blackness?

I wonder if people are ever aware of the exact time they die. Do they feel their last breath slipping away, the light going out, the loss of sensation in their limbs? Is it like falling asleep? If it's a violent death, is it a blinding sharp pain and then nothing? What is that instant like?

In Buddhism, Theravadan Buddhism at least, we are taught that the body is constantly moving at an extremely fast rate .... to represent it visually, it would look like this:

..............................................................

As a person dies, it slows down:

......... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And so on.

What are those moments like? When brainwave patters slow down... does the person feel anything? Or does everything slow down just like the brain? Maybe the conscious mind doesn't register anything after that.

I've been watching a lot of TV and lately there've been a lot of portrayals of death. Only Dead Like Me actually discusses the possibility of an afterlife, and EVEN THEN - while the Reapers gallivant around getting souls, none of these episodes actually depict what happens after the soul has moved on. There's just this very shiny scene and then nothing. All it does is follow the Reapers around in the living world. It gets old after a while.

(Plus, the only great thing about that show is Mandy Patinkin, because I think he's awesome. I like the comedy and all, but man, the main narrating character is a pain in the ass.)

And what's it like to be a ghost? That must suck, just wandering around in the same place all the time, and not even being aware of being dead - wait, how do we know that ghosts don't know they're dead? Some of them MUST know. Why else would you have friendly-type ghosts who don't harbour malevolent feelings towards the living? How does one retain knowledge of one's own death after there's no more physical body to process the information? IS the physical body needed to process new information?

This is, of course, assuming that the body is the hardware needed to process consciousness - which obviously isn't the case with some ghosts who show full consciousness of their own existance. What then, are brainwaves? What happens when brainwave activity is low?

I watched this great Cantonese movie once and I can't remember what it's called. Basically, it's about this old woman who initially wants to die, but after a field trip with other old folks, she meets a man in white, and she says, "give me ten more years and I promise I'll appreciate every moment." A host of wonderful and bad things happen to her family during the next few days until the end, when the man in white returns, and when she says "I thought I said ten years" he says "one day in heaven is a year on Earth."

Her eldest son (with whom she shares several flashbacks) is starting to realize his mother isn't what she is when he is called to the hospital, to find her in the hospital bed, and the doctor tells him, "her brainwave activity is ten times the usual rate for a normal human being." (The movie ends with both of them reconciling their less-than-satisfactory lives and realizing their worth to each other, and he gets a call, and he knows it's the hospital's news, and she says, "let me go. Pick up the phone." The next shot is him in the room without her. The scene shifts to the hospital where his sister's newborn baby is in the observation nursery, and while the entire family waves to it and says hello and all that fun stuff you do with babies behind the window, the son can feel his mother with them.)

ANYWAY, the point is, what DOES happen if brainwave activity is high? Does it mean a heightened sense of consciousness? A lot of thinking, more than what the average human does? And if it's low, it just means little brain activity, does it mean, "close to death"? How is the consciousness determined by the body - or does the consciousness determine the body's activity? As long as the "soul" (for lack of a better term) remains in the body, it's alive? Can the soul leave the body and the body remain alive? Would that accurately explain brain-dead people?

In The Redemption of Althalus, the title character thinks that "crazy people are just people who were past their time to die. It would drive anybody crazy, still being alive when they're supposed to be resting peacefully in their graves." (BTW, have I said yet that David Eddings is the shiznit? No? Well, he is.)

I think that this is the pivotal tie-in between science and spirituality - if we could understand how the both of them are linked to each other, there would be a greater understanding of the processes of death AND life. There has to be some sort of link, some way of qualitatively measuring (instead of merely quantitatively the way we so often do).

So Dawn and I kinda sparked a huge discussion for Dr. McLeod to think about for the next time he has a writing class. Basically, our stories were based on pre-existing universes, although Dawn's story could be even more standalone than mine was (hers was FF IX fanfiction, mine was set in the Forgotten Realms universe). None of the workshop people understood this and I suppose I could have done better with a disclaimer, except that I'd do that on a website where it would be public, whereas the workshop seemed like a smaller group that wouldn't quibble about copyright issues. Bad idea.

I think the problem could have been solved quite easily with a disclaimer, but Dr. McLeod went off on a tangent on originality and creativity and negotiating with a pre-conceived universe. He was also shocked to learn that Chewbacca died some Star Wars novels back. I don't think I've ever found the exclaimation "CHEWBACCA DIED???" more hilarious.

It's just plain difficult in general for a workshop class like that to negotiate with any sort of genre, because one needs to have knowledge of certain genres in order to make certain judgement calls on realism and acceptability. There're conventions to be followed and while it's certainly acceptable to break them, the story as a whole has to cohere - a lot of fantasy writers either fall into the rut of writing within the conventions, most of which now consist of stock characters or dilemmas or quests, or they end up trying to break the conventions with the disastrous results of the story not making any bloody sense. (Or both.)

EITHER WAY... in the short story world at least, genre is really looked down upon whereas non-genre stuff is more exalted, possibly because non-genre is so much more accessible to more people than genre. Normally we wouldn't even have to question convention of genre because the environment we write in encourages the writing of literary fiction that has no real genre.

Dawn and I, though, quite stubbornly insist on writing within genre and our writing caused a furor because not only did we write within the conventions of a genre, we were also writing within the conventions, rules and limitations of a pre-conceived universe, and most of our classmates were not prepared to meet us in that plane of writing, so to speak (sorry, bad pun). They got really confused over whose idea is whose, and who gets credit for certain ideas.


The point of this entry is: If you're going to be taking ENGL 3316 (or whatever the code of this class is) and you're going to write within a pre-conceived universe where certain creative elements are not yours, throw in a disclaimer so no one's taken for a loop.

All said and done, I was really happy with the Forgotten Realms story I wrote and I'm going to polish it some more and send it to TSR at some point.

It's snowing right now. I'm at work, I'm sleepy, I don't really want to go to class, but I do want to see Sean, and I'll see him after class, and it's snowing outside.

It's actually a pretty heavy snow session right now. it's mostly been a bit of snow followed by rain which totals out the snow. It's a good kind of snow though. It's soft and fluffy, and a little wet, and it stays on the ground, and it's falling down quite well without any wind blowing it around too much.

I can't imagine a more beautiful sight right now (well, maybe Sean sitting next to me watching it too) and it's got such a calming, soothing effect, I really want to go to bed.

I want to go out in it and frolick. That's what I really want to do. Gosh. The snow's so beautiful. I'm quite inarticulate right now.

When I first moved off-campus with Sam, the moonlight would fall into my room at certain points of the year, and I remember the first time I saw it I was so impressed and so excited, I told Sam about it right away. Sam, being her usual blase self, said, "of course it's moonlight. What else could it be?"

The first time I'd ever seen really natural moonlight was when I went to visit my grand-aunt Grace in Oregon, in 1994. She had a farm far out away from any town, and my brother, father and I slept in the same room. One night, while entering the room, I saw this white, bright, light on the floor, and I remember it was so luminous I was scared and convinced it was a ghost. My father laughed at me, told me it's moonlight, and proceeded to walk into the room with me to the window where it came through. I remember marvelling at the shadow, at how stark the light was, the amazing contrast.

I took a walk on a beach in 1995, with my Auntie Honey. It was a holiday to the east coast and we stayed in a little chalet by the sea, and at night I thought it would be nice to go for a walk with her along the beach. So we did, and I noticed the faint moonlight on the beach, took note of the shadows under us.

In so many populated areas, where lampposts are considered to be a good because then it lights up streets, there is so much light, not a whole lot of natural light gets through. I saw the moon out, to be sure, but if I looked out my window, I'd see so much light. I think it counts as a kind of pollution, even, because it kind of messes up the local ecology, having so much light.

In this apartment, I get the moon in my room often, particularly during summer. I had a white blanket during summer, and I love to look at how the moon illuminates my blanket.

Tonight, it's doing the same. The past few days have been rainy, but as if to make up for it, the full moon of the month is amazingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, perfectly round and richly bright. It just pours in.

I've been laying on the bed with all the lights off, just staring up at the moon. It's such a serene sight. It says nothing, but it looks so profound.

I always wonder what the moon is thinking.

The last time I marvelled at the moon like this, I had someone with me. We gazed up and made pithy comments about how beautiful it was, how we take it for granted, how we don't notice these things. Then we fell silent and spent one moment looking at it some more.

I wish it was the same now.

It's a shame how we don't notice these natural wonders anymore, or when we do, we pay it a passing note and then move on with our lives.

I'd like another night like this sometime soon.

The other day I had a bit of a nightmare. In this world, there were some set rules in place - completely arbitrary, and somewhat without reason. I dreamt I broke one of the rules (I don't recall ever being clear on exactly WHAT I did), and I was sitting in a circle of the council that had the unfortunate responsibility of telling me that I was going to be executed.

I got angry at first. Firstly, I didn't even know the rules existed, and no one saw it fit to educate me, as part of the mass public, what they were. Secondly, I hadn't even known I broke it. It was apparently an aside I did, either by complete accident, or I was forced to do it by extenuating circumstances.

Keeping these two first point in mind, I then got angry, saying, "that's not fair. I didn't know about the rules, and I didn't even know I did it. Why do I have to die for something so arbitrary? Why do I have to be executed for a rule that doesn't make sense?

One of the council members sighed, "I wish they wouldn't say 'it's not fair', of course it isn't."

I argued some more, "It's not fair because it means our lives are meaningless. It means all the time I've spent trying to be a good person, doing good, helping others be good, was all a waste because of this one little thing I've done that I didn't even mean to do, and I never meant for it to be bad. My life is rendered meaningless by this execution, and my death won't be satisfying."

For a long time, I figured that my death would be satisfying, because I've done as much as I can so far in my life, and while I wish I could do more, I can't really complain. I've said my I Love Yous and my I Cares, and I've made it clear to people what they've meant to me, and I've said what good I've been given to me. I've acknowledged my flaws and come to peace with most of them, so I think I'll die reasonably happy. So I was surprised at my reaction in the dream, getting angry because it wasn't fair that I had to die so soon, for such a petty thing. Tomorrow I might die in a stupid-ass accident - am I going to get angry at that? Shit happens like that.

Now that I think about it some more, it wasn't about the fact that I died breaking a rule. It wasn't just because it was a stupid-ass rule. It wasn't that I had done my best to be good and I wasn't recognized for it.

It was because if I died, it wouldn't make a difference: the rule would still be in place, inflicted on other people who might make the same mistake I did. It's stupid because that kind of law is the kind which is made by man, and thus changeable. Everything is mutable, and laws like that should change as well, but my death wouldn't be able to change anything. It meant my entire death was determined by this one law, and it wouldn't even be my fault that my death was meaningless.

Death should have a meaning: whether it's just a natural passing on from life, or whether it is a lesson learnt. Maybe it would be catalyst for change. If we were to die, we should be remembered for our lives, because I think our lives give our death some meaning.

If I were to die today by some injustice, would it matter to anyone?
Would my death be a catalyst for a cause?
If I were to die in the future naturally, to whom would it matter? Would my life be looked at as something to admire? Or would we be too caught up in grief? I would hope the former, and not the latter. It's a sad thing to be caught up in grief, and not move on. I should like to live a good life, and die a good death.

An unjust death that no one takes responsibility for would just be an awful way to go. But a just death that no one needs to be sorry for would be perfect.

So I was considering the life of a person in paralysis. What would it be like to live the life of a person who has perfect mental faculties, but couldn't move? Would it be better to have known the life of a person who could move first, or worse to know that life of the body has been completely taken away, for whatever reason?

By paralyzed, I mean, unable to speak or move, but capable of hearing, processing thought, maybe seeing and smelling, tasting, feeling sensations.

That, in my world, would suck. Because then I'd need full-time care, and likely by "loved ones". That would be awful, for many reasons.

#1 This would mean my family would have to support me, fiscally and physically. My mother has spent years working her arse off so I could go to university and eventually get a job and earn my own keep. She's really resentful at this period of time that I'm not graduating in less than four years, and fully expects me to support her at some period in the future, I imagine. If she had to take care of me like this now, her resentment and disappointment would become full-blown and my family would bear the brunt of her anger.

#2 I would become really depressed. Aside from the above-mentioned situation, there's also the fact that none of my family really know how to amuse me or keep me out of depression. I do that myself by writing (creation always makes me better) and reading (internalizing new ideas helps distract the mind). Being unable to do neither for myself, I would need endless entertainment, preferrably by having someone read stuff to me with colourful commentary that isn't retarded juvenile humour. Out of my entire family, I should think only my dad would be able to do this.

However, knowing my family though, they'd probably treat me like some child who needed this tender loving care and the moment they start their retarded cooing I will wish to Heaven that there was no such thing as paralysis, just death.

I think it's horrible to be perfectly functional mentally, yet have people treat you like some sub-human creature. It's bad enough the way they talk to me when I see them at reunion, quizzing me sometimes like I don't have an answer, I shudder to think how they'd treat me when I really just can't answer.

Worse still would be all the ideas internally that would have absolutely no chance to come out if I were paralyzed. I think that a life without writing would just be so miserable, I might as well just die. I would like to feel a pen in my fingers, a sheet of paper under my hand. To hear the scritch of the tip against the surface and to create meaningful markings upon the blank canvas. I'd probably take forever just to write one word, but that would be worth it - just being able to write. It would give me a way to exercise my mind, and if I could work my hand, I'm sure that eventually, I could work the rest of my body, too.

But left at my family's mercy, I would probably just wilt, completely unable to stand up for myself and unable to help them deal with my situation.

That's a frightening thought. All the more reason for me not to get into situations where I could possibly fuck myself up that badly.

I forget patience very often. I forget that some things take time, and not everything happens instantaneously. I get too caught up in the consumer world where for a sum of money I can get anything I want right after I go to the cashier.

Today, since I don't want to go out to the Market, I've decided to stay home for now and since I've no desire to work on my readings, I instead got out onto my balcony to work on my compost heap.

It's been suffering some neglect, and it's my fault. A couple of rainstorms ago, I left it open, and since it's a bin, it started to flood. I deemed it a failure when I couldn't remove the water properly, but at the suggestions of many others, I just covered it up with a plastic bag when it's raining, and the rest of the time I opened it up to let the water evaporate.

"The water has to evaporate SOMETIME" ~ lady_zip

So, most of it has. I've been throwing in more stuff, but the rambutans and lychees from the last month still haven't broken down completely (you can find the lychee seeds!). Probably because there aren't enough bugs and microbes in there to help the breakdown process.

Today, I'm sitting out there, and as I've noted before, the dirt has clumped together, by their own will! I told you, the dirt is alive! Here I thought it was just the lychees and rambutans unrotted, but I started hacking at the lumps with my spade and they broke down.

So I'm going to spend a while on my balcony making sure all the lumps are broken down and the dirt is well stirred. It takes some time and some effort, and even some monotony, but it's satisfying to see it all eventually break down.

It all works out. Just patience. Chopping away at the dirt and breaking it down.


And, hrm, I completely forgot about the onion on top of the fridge. Couple of 'em are rotting and a couple others are, well, growing. *roffles*

A friend of mine remarked the other day how I really like touching people physically. Everytime I meet a friend, I'll give them a hug. Before they leave me, I give them a hug. I don't really touch people otherwise normally, but on occasion I do love a good cuddle with the people I trust most.

So this morning I was dwelling on this, and I remembered something that happened to me in my first year in Halifax.

I was walking down South Park St. on my way to Spring Garden Rd, passing the front of an apartment block (Haligonians will probably know what I'm talking about), and walking towards me were a group of adolescent girls. They couldn't have been older than fourteen. I don't know how to gauge age anymore.

One of the girls looked like the "different" one of the group. She wasn't talking to them, just walking with them. I wouldn't say she was differently-abled, but I got the feel of it from her. Mostly because she was the one walking right in front of me, and when I moved to the side to let her pass, she moved in front of me.

I moved to the left, she followed suit. Right, and she still blocked me.

You could tell it was done on purpose, judging by the smile on her face. I don't know why she did that - maybe just to aggravate. Maybe just to see me try to push her aside.

But it was clear she was going to block my path, so I threw my arms around her into a hug.

Her friend burst out into laughter, but she hugged me back and when I let her go, I think I patted her on the head and said something to the effect of "have a nice day." Or maybe I didn't say anything. This all happened in the space of a few seconds.

While they walked away, I heard her friends say, "that was awesome!" and in two seconds I hear running steps towards me.

I turned around, and she was bolting towards me with her arms wide open, so I opened my arms too, and she hugged me tightly. I hugged her back, and then she stepped back, grinned at me and ran back to her friends.

I never met her again.

I feel the need to talk about my dirt.

Not the regular dust that settles on any flat surface in this apartment, no, that goes without saying it'll happen since I shed so damn much. No, I'm gonna talk about my compost heap.

( My Compost Heap )

Let me discuss the history of my fascination with dirt in this manner.

( My History with Compost Heaps )

I'm not find of dirt getting under my fingernails, nor do I like creepy-crawlies (except earthworms, earthworms are cool in my book), but I like working with earth. I live on the 14th floor, so I figure, this will be a good start to having anything close to a garden.

I watch my compost heap every day, or at least, every other day. Sometimes the bin is outside, usually when the weather is fairly warm, or at least wet. Sometimes the bin is inside, next to the heater because I hear heat helps the decomposting.

( The Living Dirt )

There are definite conveniences for having a compost heap. My table's next to the balcony door, so I brought in the bin, ate lychees and dumped the lychee skins into the bin while sitting down in the comfort of my chair.

I don't really know what to do with the dirt once the bin gets to full capacity. Maybe I'll start growing stuff.

Bulbs. Yes.

Sometimes people put up a good front by they start seeing each other. Shouldn't this good front become a part of the whole personality instead of being dropped out as they grow more comfortable with each other? Why put on the front at all?

If a certain thing or action is based on common sense, why do people still disagree on it?

A lot of people don't eat dog on account that doggies can be pets. Do people who own pigs as pets refuse to eat meat on the same grounds? (Fuck, if I see a "Poor doggies" in response to how some peoples eat dog again....)

What would philosophy - indeed, the whole Western civlization - have been like if Plato had been a woman?

These days, if we get upset with another country, we could just terminate trade relations with them. Why do we still send in armies and declare war?

What DO cats call their vaginas?

The Victorians were strait-laced, and pretended sex didn't exist. How come so many Victorian families had so many kids?

If some rules are aboslute, do they vanish when their absoluteness is challenged?

We have double standards - are there such things as triple standards? Quadruple standards? How many degrees can we go?