Recent news of mortalities hither and yon – tard bombs, a suicide, another suicide, two or three recent murders, a pet put to sleep – has me musing on my relationship to my own dead. I am told I spend more time with these shades than others do, than is socially common.
I don’t have a useful means to evaluate these statements, so I mostly interpret them to mean “you’re a downer, and harshing my mellow,” and appropriately ignore them.
From my perspective, I spend no measurable time with my dead, they being, er, dead.
Yet I do miss them terribly. I feel them standing behind me as I walk around, massed in the blind spot behind me, crowding together so as not to knock shit off my shelves.
Additionally, on hearing news tying electrode brain implants to involuntary hallicinatatory real-time immersive memory experience, my first thought was that I will be able to see my sister again before I too pass away. And that is a happy thought, infected brain lesions excluded from the wetware calculus for the nonce.