Of the current 8,298,638,535 people on this planet, I’m going to premise that half are living, and half are dying. Of course I’m not dealing in perfect faith with this, I haven’t met all these people, and I don’t know them that well. I start from my tiny experience of myself, of people I’ve known well, that I’ve loved, that I know have lived, and died.

Some have died, but still live, so you can see that I don’t always accept the generally accepted definitions of words or concepts. And “living” seems to me, perhaps after “loving”, to be the most ill defined word.

So perhaps I can write on this subject only for myself, here on my landlocked island of Penge, a days walk south of London Town, which was once a thriving port on a river near Europe, but I’d love it if you’d grant me a stay of execution, and hang around a little; perhaps we can live these thoughts together.

You’ve probably guessed that I define much of the living, of myself, and those around me, as a form of dying. And curiously the limited experience of conventional “dying” I’ve had, was very much mixed up with vivid real living.

Here I am, on a Saturday morning in June, with the sun beaming warm outside my cave, and I’ve no intention to go out before dark. Instead I’m hoping to take a sailboat out tonight on to that great river estuary, and if I can’t get back before daylight tomorrow I’ll suffer that.

But enough of me, I meant to speak of you. Do you live, often? I think you do, I struggle to believe that anyone can be dead all the time, even the conventionally dead.

And that number, which I quoted above, which is now a little changed, which represents a diversity, and a uniformity - the fraction of it, which itself must vary infinitely, my stated “half”, being a gross over simplification - that fraction that live is something my words just can’t do justice to. I leave it rather to your imagination —

take a moment

It’s ok. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

Where was I?

“Of living and dying”

It’s like a school project, offers almost limitless variety of approach. But I am limited by my experience. Very little vivid life, and a bit of vivid, and bland death.

We all know, or think we know, where life begins, and we think we know where death ends, but when does death begin, and how can we say where life ends, without first understanding where death begins, and am I playing with words when I suggest, that death can begin, but be interrupted by vivid life?

And so I can return to that fraction, and think of people, all over the world in situations that I can’t begin to understand, but maybe I can understand that life is mixed with death, and that it be complicated, and fascinating to imagine.

And perhaps even, that there be no shame to be a little dead, a little of the time.

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Oh dear, I fell short, and yet I am done;

this might have me instantly booted out, but, I copy poems below that I think fitting

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What I forgot;

======

Did any man

Ever forget to breath?

Neigh,

E’en my poor demented dad

N’er missed a breath,

Till after a whole day

Of obsessively laboured panting,

His skeleton gave up his ghost.

———-

And there he lay

In warm Pyjamas,

But was no more welcome

In that, his own home.

———-

That was a wrong turning,

I meant to speak of forgetting.

Forgetting to live,

To eat or drink,

To dress before going out, or

Forgetting to come back.

That, surely has been done,

But for me

Would be

A pure fantasy.

—————

And isn’t Death

The ultimate fantasy?

Something we should look forward to –

But here we cower,

Daring not look

The gift horse in the mouth,

Nor take – any leap of faith.

————-

Tell me why I breath-

Eat,

Sleep,

Work,

Play?

————-

And “play” the first we might forget-

But fear not,

I have remembered

My teeth

To brush

Tonight.

I’ll remember now

To sleep – good night.

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Surviving

======

Am I becoming old already?

Was I ever young?

My body still repairs itself,

I don’t yet need

To “Take care”

——-

I have outlived many things;

Concorde –

I was never on it, but it disturbed my peace,

And does no more.

Cross Channel Hovercrafts,

That were run as an airline.

Not airlines,

They still go, and we binge on their unneeded service, but not I.

My religion,

After a fashion. But only when I think too hard.

Roast dinners,

Not fried breakfasts,

But my definition of “fried” may have shifted

Somewhat,

And pumpkin, and swede, never used to feature.

——

And I have outlived my wife,

And the habit of addressing her directly,

But not of harking on.

And long before,

Of belonging…

Anywhere

Else.

—

And cars without computers,

And poems that look like poems,

And homemade cakes in tearooms,

And tea that tastes like tea in cafeterias.

And women that want anything to do with me.

—

And where do these verses begin,

Or end?

—-

Yes – I survive,

And I take no care,

But need not,

As care takes me,

For I have no interest

In anything, but…

Laying abed till late in the day

Sharing with you.

—

And you –

Who are you?

A friend??

And tell me,

Promise me please…

Will I not survive you!

Better you survive me,

E’en if that mean you only see me this day

And think nought of any morrow.

Such that none can survive any other

But we only grasp and let go,

And long for another touch,

Or fleeting glimpse.

I am

Well done…

With surviving.

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nine more words?

Maybe I’ll do better next time.