I'm afraid of death. I'm not afraid of death. I don't believe people that claim they aren't. I used to be one of them, but then I realized that I'd just stopped thinking about it. How would I measure Life's value without that fear? One of the first nightmares I can remember (and possibly even my first memory) was a recurring dream: a pulverizingly massive and uniform black particle sucked up and swept down and slowly rolled over a brightly painted English cottage. Alone in that house was a small girl with curly tresses. She frantically locked the windows and stuffed towels under the doorgaps, but the house began to shrink under the infinite weight. To implode evenly. The sensation was of a zoom out on this one spark of light, leaving only this impossible thickness of black. Some nights I woke myself up with my screams, having absolutely no idea just why I was so frightened. Other times, my mum would tell me I'd had another nightmare while my face was in my morning cereal. She suggested at the time that it was some residual memories of the complications I'd had in the womb (I'm a breech baby), but I think that she was trying to soothe me. hahaha. I later learnt about death from our tortoise that came out of hibernation too early one year, and passed. I think I have to learn about death each time I ponder it, it slips away so quickly by the rote passage of time. Thinking about death restores meaning. It also hurts so very terribly.
I saw the new Nature of Things last weekend and it was suggested that primal humans created art as a means of tribute to -and understanding of- the death of members of their clan. Seems obvious enough, but the idea struck me with some force. Art as a method of coping? Get me some paint and safety scissors!
Somewhat related. I won't pass comment on this other than, if I understand this correctly, this is fucked up: collective punishment.