He is unaware of a whereness and it’s hard to be all foreground. For instance, he is in a chair at a desk in a room with a door, closed, beyond which is the rest of the house on a street in a city beneath a galaxy of stars all shot through with ghosts and gods and no end of ambiguous wailing.
But is he aware of the chair or the desk or the glass of water atop the used copy of Discourse on the Method? How about the house, the city and all those stars, the many layers of the peculiar dream we call outside—is he aware of those? Does he, so him, hear the wailing? The answers—no, no, no—rush in quickly. All too quickly. And it is precisely here where I want to leave the questions open, give them room and let them breathe, and see, perhaps, if the rushed conclusion isn’t an example, itself, of a failure to hear the essence of the endless wailing of the gods and stars and water.
The where of his apparent awareness dwells within an in-tense (in what?) amount of suffering that neglects the chair, the room, the water and gods, and focuses rather on the composition of a suicide note that, take note, also ignores the computer, the desk, the closed door and—beyond—the bright lights of the beckoning city and its luminescent twin of bitter stars.
He wants to die. He is going to kill himself and he is full of regret. The intensity of his suffering, the reasons he wants to die, and his regret toward all whom he intends to leave behind. This is the half-written substance of the note he composes, paused, reflecting, sifting through his screaming thoughts for the note’s conclusion. Don’t rush it. Never rush it. Take it slow.
Regret. From Old French regreter: bewail (the dead), perhaps from the Germanic base greet.
This is not a suicide plot. It’s a murder conspiracy. He is aware of the chair and the water, the door and the stars. He hears the wailing. It sounds to his ears like the exquisitely unique tragedies that, oddly enough, plague us all: deformed love, work dissatisfaction, imbalanced brain chemistry, inferiority, money problems, the relentless inability to make ends meet. These conclusions, these rash interpretations of the endless wailing, forget the crucial essence of the wailing. The blind desire for conclusions, to make ends meet, is how we meet our end.
Quickly. All too quickly. We forget the ambiguity that vivifies our lives while misinterpreting and misplacing the source of the screaming.
He is innately and irreducibly embedded, pristinely enmeshed, fundamentally in-volved, by definition entangled in context, always already in a sharing that endures. Relationship given, together implied. In a world, therein he is. His desire to die is a longing for union with what is already dead and with which he originally belongs as the precondition for being at all: being-with-all. His regret is not for whom he intends to leave behind. It is the wail of the already abandoned and neglected. The chair’s revenge. The door slammed shut. The house’s resentment. The street’s dead end. The ugly city and the murderous stars—
Go ahead and write your letter. Just. Resist conclusion. Never finish. Forestall forever what is never inevitable. Your death does not belong to you. Wailing means lots of things. There are many ways to greet. What wails like a dead world hellbent on killing you is the wail of the world begging for its life. Pay attention to where you’re sitting, to what constantly supports you without complaint. Slow down. Sip water. Open the door. Go outside. You are always inside. You have never not been outside. My God, it’s always twilight. There are friends along the way.