Death and sound

Today I accidentally visited an art installation on death and grief. When I realized what I had walked into, I felt a strong resistance to going on. But there was soft, sweet droning music playing, and the lighting was dark and violet.

My soul woke up. It wanted to be closer to death; not because I desire it, but because this form of death was friendly enough to feel familiar.

Sitting, listening

Yesterday, I had a sudden desire to listen to the overture from the Tommy soundtrack.

The Who - Listening to You

I played this song in highschool band 30 years ago. I've had the tune stuck in my head since then; however, I'd never listened to the original until last night.

As I walked through this exhibit, that joyous part of my soul was singing the part I know on repeat, through my mouth (out loud.)

> Listening to you, I get the music. Gazing at you, I get the heat.

This song comes from an album where trauma is distant enough to regale with bombast and sound. The Tommy motion picture wins hearts through spectacle rather than tact; it's just one audio-visual explosion after another.

I kept up my cotton-candy pop music mantra as I wandered slowly through. There was a part where you could sit still and listen to the sounds; I sat there, feeling the cold sterile distance and the warm happiness of being alive moving together. I don't know if I have a friendship with death, or a friendship with the concept of it.

Video of sitting still with the sound

A picture of the birds

This exhibit gave me a chance to just be with these feelings in a way that felt joyous. But in between life and death is suffering and rot; the last time I was en route to death, my body had to keep relearning how to interpret reality. Senses change, and things that used to be restful are agonizing.

That's why it felt so cozy sitting here, in the dark and light with nice empty music and the ability to be at rest; to experience the closeness of death without its complete disruption of present life.

I think it must be a privilege to pass in an instant from life to death. The space in between is terrible. On the other hand, now that I've stepped into that space a few times, it feels indescribably great to step closer into life again.

Why do we talk like this?

Why do we talk like this?

These words feel like a ball of yarn to me. I don't dislike it, I just find it alienating. It feels like it's too hard to be inclusive, so we complicate prose to be safely distant from the people we might hurt. I can hear the author muttering beneath their breath: "hold space, hold space, hold space." But who are we writing for?

I don't know what makes me so uncomfortable with this tone. It feels disingenuous to me, but it's more than that. I think I'm overreacting, and I don't know why.

I would write instead:

> "If no one expected anything of me right now -- including myself -- what would I do with my feelings?"

Don't go alone

I'm glad I had people I love and care for on this walk. I asked for "time alone", but I could feel them there. Just far away enough to not have to hide my facial expressions. I'm happy for them to see me feeling things, but today I just wanted to do it on my own. And I'm glad that doesn't have to mean being alone.

Postscript

For a few moments, while sitting with the sound, I felt uncomfortable. I took a photo of the floor, thinking "this spot I see from above is where my face would lie if this is where I passed."

Where my face would lie if I passed