Or maybe there is. I can’t help but think: life is about death. Life is about thinking about death all of the time. Isn’t it? I mean, even when we don’t think we are thinking about death I’d wager that we are. Sitting in a movie theater or watching sports or driving to work is no exception. Neither is playing video games, colon-cleansing, nor mowing the lawn, et cetera. This is a concomitant characteristic of being self-aware creatures. We are aware that we are alive, and we are aware that one day WE ARE GOING TO DIE. Other animals aren’t self-aware in the same way humans are, and this is obvious. They don’t ask themselves “hey, do you ever think about death?” Animals have a more unique understanding of death (I think). Of course I’m not talking about a scientific or philosophical understanding. I am thinking more along the lines of intuitively and instinctively. Like (most) every other being on this planet animals don’t want to die. In fact, most animals freak out at the slightest, out of the ordinary sound. E.g. the other day a UPS delivery person dropped off a package at my front door and then rang my doorbell. This happens a lot because I electronically order lots of stuff from various websites. Nevertheless, as I got up to fetch my goods, my emotionally compromised felines made severe haste for the nearest fortified hiding place, (which, since this is a frequent occurrence, is often times ridiculous: slamming kitchen cabinet doors, or flattening out to the size and shape of what can only be described as that of a flying squirrel, only to then—with extreme difficulty—slide under the Lazyboy® and hide, et cetera). My cats don’t think about the noise; they don’t even think about what they’re doing while freaking out because of the noise, which is why they slide across the hardwoods, slam into walls, stumble, flip, and flop awkwardly, and eventually flying-squirrel-like launch over obstacles in order to escape said noise. Instead, they react to what the noise might signify: possible harm and/or death. This reaction is natural. And hilarious.
Think about the deer. Think about the deer that hears the gunshot and becomes immediately aware of a coincidental blazing and piercing pain in its side. The deer is not trying to link the two events. The dear is not like “well, hey. That’s curious.” The deer is not trying to deduce what the two events have in common in an associative manner. No. The deer bolts; it launches itself full speed into escape mode while trying (in vain) to outrun impending doom as if someone or some-thing had just lit its furry little butt on fire. All one can hope is that the shot is clean and that the deer hasn’t the time for anything other than an immediate and swift expiration. (Editorial aside): This is why I don’t hunt; I’m too emotional, and I’m too Buddhist-like about sentient life; (take note: I am not a Buddhist). Though I am undoubtedly aware of its necessity, that is, hunting, I understand that my ancestors had to hunt for survival. I also understand that the deer population has exploded, exponentially. But, baiting a small, square acre of land and sitting in a “blind,” all the while holding a high-powered, high-speed, and high capacity phallic-shaped dispenser of metal certainly is not hunting. Placing what the deer can only gather is a large, heavy, and clamorous botanical mystery that scatters some irresistible grain at specific intervals in the middle of their stomping ground is not hunting, either. Listen: I’m not making any moral claims here; don’t take it that way. I’m just trying to differentiate between what is hunting and what is baiting, (and there are certainly masters of both). However, I’m pretty sure that Ted Nugent hunts. So, for measurement one might consider directing one’s gaze at the Nuge for mastery over such ethical conundrums, (at least as far as sustainable and morally appropriate hunting is concerned) ← And, of course this is all assumption.
Speaking of hunting, (still) I gather that hunting is cathartic for some much like any other related sense-activity is as well. Loosely defined, sense-activity is any activity where one, well, uses his or her senses towards some end, particularly as an escape method for coping with that ultimate realization noted at the very beginning of this essay: that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. But there are all sorts of various sense-activities, of which even reading, writing, and thinking are also a part; (without getting into a Freudian hermeneutic regarding the idea of Displacement or Sublimation, I will note here that said terms, very simply put mind you, mean to trans- or dislocate a volitional drive thereby placing, channeling, or combining one activity on, through, or with another. Confused yet? Excellent). In short, we are all afraid of dying on some level or another, and we all try to escape this fear via catharsis, which is literally a purging (by way of displacing) that which is harmful to productive living. Whether a cat or a UPS delivery person; whether a deer, hunter, or a flying squirrel we are all freaking out, and we are all searching for the comforts of our very own Lazyboy®.
Living room furniture notwithstanding, (though I cannot help but consider the phrase “living room” to be both ironic and apropos) this is what life is about: stuffing stuff into the time we have while gravity pulls us ever-so-faster and ever-so-closer to an indifferent patch of dirt, all the while being fully aware that we are alive and that one day we won’t be; (please keep any Cartesian comments to one’s own self as such comments might muddy up the already swamp-like conditions of this here essay. Also, swamps can be a good place to hunt). Don’t forget that Time is stuff just like Experience is also stuff. Too, Displacement and catharsis are both ways to cope with the fact that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. So, spending time doing stuff is also stuff, and there are all kinds of other stuff to be considered: sentimental stuff, theological stuff, philosophical stuff, material stuff, aesthetic stuff, spiritual stuff, et cetera; it’s all stuff, really. It’s just different forms and flavors of stuff, and it all has to do with thinking about and coping with one’s own personal plunge towards planet earth. And it is here that we have finally reached the dénouement of this entire essay: that a person can only truly and totally be free if he or she eliminates all of the stuff that zooms past during freefall. But here’s the question: why would anybody want to do that? So, to do otherwise, that is, to detach oneself from what it truly means to be free is to realize that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE; it is to be helplessly and hopelessly attached to a universe that is constantly trying to hit the Eject Button mid-flight. Pay attention because here it is: This is what it means to be alive; this is what it means to live. So lift your nose to the air and take a deep breath. Stretch out your arms and legs flying-squirrel-like and realize that life is about that brief microsecond that you are allowed to fall. Listen to the wind batter your eardrums, and taste the rushing air as it fills your lungs. This is what it’s like to live, and there are no parachutes.
