Page 18, The Excavation of Its Future Memory

It is probably time, at the end, just about as we are to rush away, on to the next adventure, it is probably time to mention fear.  Like the person you’ve been talking to all afternoon about trivial things here and there, the person who waits til the last five minutes when you really have to be going, brings up a serious matter between the two of you that would’ve easily filled up the same amount of time as the conversation about weather and appliance choices.

We only think of our life at one end when we start off.  Then that life imagined as it is begins to disappear and the life we somehow live fills up spaces our dreams once held.  And even though that life might not be too far off the mark, we still have this experience of mourning.  But mourning is going a little too far ahead, for mourning follows fear, or is the dread that drives fear.  Because heist as the life that disappears finds the consequences of rituals we create or those that create us, just as that life shrinks, the life-we-were also ceases to be.  What we fear is awls that giving up of what once was.

If you are a person who thinks you are a person that doesn’t like olives, for example, and you never eat them nor seek them out.  They don’t exist to you, they have no impact.  But say you accidentally, or by some skip in time-lapse record, end up eating one.  And let’s say you end up enjoying the experience. You are not a person who doesn’t like olive anymore.


So sometimes, on matters more pressing, the fear of not being made up of the same parts we once were.  Deaths, even of enemies, shock us.  Make holes in what we once thought was solid.

What dies when we start to take on that the limitations we arbitrarily assign to who understands what and what understands who, that these limitations 
are by fairly tales

To learn anything we have to give away everything.

So what is sacrificed when we search for where the grass meets the ground?

We want so desperately that words, pages leaves, that these things are 

container for some kind of true for some kind of rightness.  

Auto correct.  Word processors.  These tiny images, atomic sensemakers.

Leaves fall.  Trees live.  Wind blows.  Trees bend.

If there is an end it is only of our own making.  Sensemaking requires space.  We are end making machines with our eligible images, boxes for seeing, experiencing and then cataloging, filing away.  To make room for what?  So we can sit on a beach?  What do we offer ourselves for a job well done?  An entry back into what we once thought was completed or to embark on new seas?

Continually we mourn

Given the chance to thoroughly embed our images upon a plant, we would mourn as deeply its passing as much as a person or even now as much as pets.  As the animals that vegetarians about eating.  Plants continually live outside of these makings.  We mourn them not in the slightest.  Confronted wiht this rift, those with that unbearable missoinfinding addiction may endeavor to tell us that we would do well to mourn plants as much or people and animals not so much.  But it is the bifurcation of perceived duties that is the culprit.

Imagine the ritual of expressing gratitude before a meal, for the things the soon to be digested meal will provide capabilities for —t his is not a trivial conversation with others besides ourselves.

If I should die before I wake