Raging Against the Machine (not for the faint of heart)

Dead.

Unalive. Nonliving. Antibreathing. Gone. Not here.

In the past five years I've lost seven people I love. Over my lifetime it's been all of my uncles, two dads, a mother, my grandmother, all of my siblings, the father of my children, a nephew, close friends, and some others I cared about but didn't know all that well.

They were once here on this earth - cavorting around as they chose, loving people, going to the beach, cooking, watching TV, dancing, feeling - and now they've all gone, sucked up into the abyss we call death. I knew them. I still do, but it doesn't do me (or them) much good. They're gone.

You'd think someone would send out a search party... but no one does. And why? Because we just accept it. You live, then you die. Done deal.

REALLY done.

Some people say that it's just the cycle of life, part of nature. Others transform it into the first act of a Glory play, with heaven, and angels, and a gigantic family reunion (sans all of the drama that usually shows up when families get together). It's great. You walk into brilliant, dazzling white light and your loved ones meet you with open arms. Forget that you didn't really even like your grandmother, or would be just as happy to never see one of your uncles again. Somehow, in that brilliant moment, you rush into their arms and you're happier than you've ever been. It's awesome. Lollapaloosa. The very very Grateful Dead.

Myself? It makes me angry. I want to scream, tear up my living room, throw books through closed windows and watch the glass shatter into a thousand pieces. I want to stand on the roof and yell myself hoarse: "Are you fucking kidding me?!!!!!!!" "This is IT?" "He's gone?" "They're all gone"!!!! "Forever?????????"

It is stunning to me that people are so polite about it all. We walk through very controlled rituals of grief: send cards, go to a funeral (where you're not supposed to cry anymore - you're supposed to celebrate). We reassure one another that the person is in a better place (like this one sucks so much?). There might be a moving scattering of ashes, or even a video of the person's life. After the teary graveside service (if there is a grave), we'll all stand around and share humorous anecdotes that take the edge off the pain. Then we go home.

What we should be doing is going to war. There should be a revolution, a marauding gang of grief-crazed anarchists who simply aren't willing to put up with it all anymore. We should be tearing down the doors, grabbing the priests/pastors/rabbis/philosophers and shaking them until they admit they don't get it any more than we do.

Then, we can collapse together on the floor, huddled together, and cry with longing and sorrow... until the tears of this moment are dry.