Death be not Proud

The dead are laying down in morgues, and in their graves forever. I see some too who walk and talk and put in waiting-time. I see the light of day and I breathe. Death be not proud, though some think it so. Not so. It's too banal. It's common, as one might say of shop-keepers and lorry drivers. The uncommon, the bred, take my mind to far away places. Stepping over, or in one case around, the dead these recent days, I step into realms beyond, and I live in a state of awe and amusement. Five down, face down. The living, should they so choose, gaze like God to the end of infinity: Hubble shows us All. Or we find the same gazing Sphinx looking no further than Hell, ourselves made. Not dead nor lifeless but Hell-living. And Eternity just around every corner.

Bio-mechanical medicine will save us all forever and we will never die again. No dead, no babies-- money, brain power, and fetal tissue keeping us alive for all of time.

Neil Postman quotes Freud's Civilization and its Discontents:

"And finally, what good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?"

Quoted from Covenant Zone, " Past is Prologue." 18 May 2006.
http://covenantzone.blogspot.com/2006/05/past-is-prologue-1.html

Yes, Freud had cancer and had seen the Jews of Europe destroyed in their millions. Why would he want to carry on living? Forever.

John Donne (1572-1631) "Death Be Not Proud"

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

First we must live, and living isn't enough. I see the dead lie down, and I walk around them. I walk around. I see. I lie down. I sleep. I wake up each day. I see the dying walking in their sleep, driven to Hell by the sight of what they see. I sit by the fire in this cold place and listen to music sometimes. I think it's living.

Don't know if Savoy Brown will turn out well here.