Death

Just finished reading Albert Camus' 'The Outsider'. Never really bothered with those French philosopher types before. I think I did start a bit of Satre once but soon gave up, just seemed like a lot of words, not much substance. Like most philosophy I suppose. Anyway, 'The Outsider' was a nice little book, not as deep as I imagine the author would have liked to think it was - perhaps things have changed since 1942? - but an interesting character and a fun, quirky writing style. Mainly what it made me think of was a poem/song I wrote when I was about sixteen that was about the inevitable, upcoming death of my great-grandmother. She was ancient. It was bound to happen sooner or later. And, back then, I used to dread it because I knew I wouldn't mourn, wouldn't be able to get upset like I imagined other people would. And the thought of that, and the thought of having to pretend really bothered me. Seemed to me like all the crying and sadness was an act. And that the way I felt was something that would have to be contained, because people would see it as harsh, callous, abnormal. Don't remember the whole of it but it was something like: "I never want her to die/you don't know the first thing about it/and here I lie/and you know the worst thing about it/is the pain inside/why should I pretend and hide/these views of mine/the way you act, it shouldn't be like that". Well, we write a load of shite when we're teenagers and I guess we don't even know the half of what we're saying. But sometimes you look back and think, hey, wow, maybe that actually was sort of cool.

Anyway, in the event it took her quite a long time to get around to dying - she was well into her senile nineties by the time she popped her clogs - and I do believe hers was the first funeral I ever went to. And then, within a couple of years, I'd been to see both my other grandmas buried too. Funny thing is, I found them all quite jolly affairs. Nice to see everyone together. Family I hadn't talked to for ages. Sandwiches and crisps. And, more than any of that, the sense that those shrivelled up tired beat old women were off up there in the astral somewhere really having a rather funky time all free from the shackles of this body, the drudgery of their lives here on Earth. It was groovy. I imagined that and I imagined them then reborn sometime soon, all freed from their pointless and fearful minds, cute kids, toddlers in little pink dresses, bare knees pumping away on tricycles and smiles and excitement and happiness where once only lonely, stress-filled evenings of Eastenders and Coronation Street had been and it really made me smile. I remember standing there in that old black tie and feeling massively filled with joy. And then realising that I was massively grinning too. And thinking I'd better tone it down a bit. But I had a block of cheese in my pocket and that made me laugh. And then all the sincerity and sombrenous of it, people taking it seriously. There's a part of me that knows the way I see things is perhaps a little weird - and by weird I instantly realise I mean: not usual in the localised current and recent society - and yet...when I type all this and contemplate it, and think of the alternative, I realise - to put it bluntly - that it's a far superior and more beneficial and infinitely more healthy way of thinking about life. Listen: it's no measure of mental health to be considered well-adjusted to a sick society.

I remember on the way back from my dad's mum's funeral, me and him were squeezed up in the back of his drummer's van - oddly surreal enough - and he was saying to me weird things like, "she could have waited, you know," and, "I think she was selfish, going like that." "Why?" I said, "what did she have to hang around for?" "For us," he said, "for me and you and Steven [my brother]." Well what could I say to that? It was bizarre. The idea that this poor woman who spent ninety percent of her day in a state of high and lonely anxiety, fretting about every little thing, with really nothing to live for should cling on to life for the sake of three men who didn't really need her...well, there was no way I could get my head around that; I guess he was just expressing something for himself. But, for me, I couldn't have been happier for her. Really, what was there to live for? And what kind of life compared to the realm of spirit, and the re-entry into new body, new mind, with new parents and friends and adventures and, instead of nothing, a billion things to look forward to. I've heard it said that some cultures mourn when a baby is born - for that is the beginning of suffering - and celebrate when the body dies and the spirit is freed. It's an interesting way of looking at things. I can't say I subscribe to that either - but it's perhaps a bit more sensible than the alternative. Anyways, I'd say let's celebrate 'em both.