People keep dying and then popping up again. Like whack-a-mole we’re hard to keep down, but the universe keeps trying. The life described here contains death and birth and Nazis and writing conferences and sex, of course, with a touch of dairy farming and the Civil War. I’ve tried to keep it funny, but some things — like the Holocaust — just aren’t.
In the past there’s death. In the future there’s death. Death, death, death, “Life is all about death,” someone might say. And while most people on this earth try not to think about it, it’s inevitable. For those that do think about it, the joy of life curdles like milk gone sour, the grapes of wine and song turn to raisin bran and Ensure, the great gasp of procreation fades into the moaning of wind through the broken teeth of gravestones, genitals mummy-wrapped in adult diapers, breasts once swollen with milk like gummed flaps on empty postal envelopes, impressed with expired “forever stamps” no message going nowhere.
That does sound pretty dark, I’ll admit. I’m not saying one should dwell on the fact – dress in sackcloth and ashes, sleep in a casket so when death comes, relatives have only to shut the lid – I’m just saying that an awareness of death when one is in the right frame of mind, can spur a greater appreciation of being alive, even if one is standing in the rain with a hangover, removing a stack of unpaid bills from the mailbox as the toast burns in the kitchen.
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