CATALYST: 'AFTERLIFE', Issue 2, Volume 79

afterlife /ˈɑːftəlʌɪf/ noun an existence after death

: an existence after death. : a later period in one’s life.

What happens after we die?

We will be exploring religion, reincarnation, the universe and what it means to you, to both live and die.

How can others live within us, and what does afterlife represent to you?

From the deep and raw to the most sentimental of pieces.

*Trigger Warning for themes around death

Contributions.

Catalyst Issue 4 2022

Established in 1944

Contact catalyst@rmit.edu.au

RMIT Media Collective, RMIT City Campus, Building 12, Level 3, Room 97

Printer

Printgraphics Pty Ltd 14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley, Victoria 3149

Australia

Editors:

Olivia Hough

Mihika Dhule

Charlie Borracci

Designers:

Brianna Simonsen

Vivian Dobbie-Glazier

Charlie Borracci

Mihika Dhule

Sophia Cuthbertson

Soumill Sawmill

Editorial Committee:

Juliette Salom

Stella Thomson

Julianna Rajkowski

Claudia Weiskopf

Ruby Edwards

Alyssa Forato

India Curtain

Ruby Box

Creative Writing Officers:

Juliette Salom

Claudia Weiskopf

Julianna Rajkowski

Mina Wakefield

Entertainment Officers:

Ruby Box

Vivian Dobbie-Glazier

Ruby Edwards

Olivia Hough

Mina Wakefield

Copywriter:

India Curtain

Cover Design:

Sophia Cuthbertson

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union acknowledge the people of the Woi wurrung and Boon wurrung language groups of the eastern Kulin Nations on whose unceded lands we conduct the business of the University. RMIT University respectfully acknowledges their Ancestors and Elders, past, present and future.

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where it contacts its business.

Ptolemaea - Ethel Cain

Svefn-g-englar - Sigur Rós

I Know The End - Phoebe Bridgers

Burn The Cat - James

Dealer - Lana Del Rey

Watching Him Fade Away - Mac DeMarco

Gilded Lily - Cults

Two Boys at the Waterfall - Benjamin Witt

God Turn Me Into a Flower - Weyes Blood

Cherry-coloured Funk - Cocteau Twins

Sea, Swallow Me - Cocteau Twins, Harold Budd

Show You a Body - Haley Heynderickx

Leach - Cryogeyser

Genesis - Grimes

Is It Cold In The Water? - SOPHIE

Dawn FM - The Weeknd

Crash - Charli XCX

Haunted - Laura Les

FLATLINE - Frost Children

Se Eu Soubesse - Viratempo

Call For Help - Pearly Drops

Twist The Knife - Chromatics

Hit Me Where It Hurts - Caroline Polachek

Ascension - daine

Dog Days Are Over - Florence + The Machine

I’m Not Your Dog - Baxter Dury

Let Us Die - King Princess

You Lose! - Magdalena Bay

This Hell - Rina Sawayama

Of Once and Future Kings - Pavlov’s Dog

Letter from the editors

Afterlife deals with subject matter I continue to The idea that there is, or is not someplace after current makes me feel uncomfortable, sick to my but most of all inquisitive. Afterlife gives us to investigate how we feel about the ever impending This magazine is a collection of of our biggest fears, connection to lost love ones and a celebration of and we hope it is provocative, Love From Liv

editors

to avoid. after the stomach a chance impending end. fears, our of life, Liv

CHARLIE

I’m very excited for this edition of Catalyst! I am grateful for what we have been able to do so far, and all of the wonderful people we have met. A big thankyou to my other editors, our amazing designers, podcasters, and dedicated writers and contributors. You guys make this possible! Afterlife brings a sort of magic with it, as we discuss the unknown, scary and peaceful. We hope it will evoke emotion and make you think.

Love Charlie

I’ve always thought about it. I’ve always wondered what begins when it all ends? It’s confusing and scary but also exciting. Through this issue you will get to experience a variety of the afterlife. These pieces have made me stare at a bare wall and wonder what is the true meaning of life. I truly hope this issue resonates with your curiosity too. So go on, step into the world of unknown... and leave what you know life as, behind. Good luck!

Love, Mihika <3

LIVING Juliette Salom

Tonight I cried in row F of a cinema that wasn’t my own.

I’ve been working at the movies since I was sixteen. It was my first proper job, one that finally didn’t involve me delivering pharmaceutical medicines to elderly community members on my bike, the first job that required me to have a tax file number and a self-managed savings account. I’ve worked at the cinema for all of almost eight years – the lifespan of a small human. A human that probably can’t get to school by themselves or make a meal beyond cereal, but a human, an actual living being, that can walk and can talk and have things to say. A person, nonetheless.

I turn twenty-four this week and only now that I’m doing the math do I realise I’ve spent pretty much a third of my life in that movie palace. I was there when Star Wars came back to theatres again, there when a superhero franchise conjured lines out the door, there when audiences that’d never seen a foreign film loved a little film from Korea; I was there when light danced and music sang and disbelief was suspended, when

I know what you wanna say I think that

you’re all the same

Constantly being led astray You think you know somethin’ you don’t Downtown hot spots

stories sometimes changed lives, and sometimes only minds. And still I can barely find my way to university by myself, barely make a meal beyond cereal. I can walk and I can talk but only sometimes do I have things worth saying.

I finish my degree soon – I have only two subjects left to fulfill. And so maybe it makes sense that now feels an apt time for me to be thinking so much about a life after it all. After class, after timetables, after cinema shifts and closing credits. I cried tonight in a cinema on the other side of town because I saw a story that confronted the after with a story of the living. Like an antidote to the idea of afterlife, I watched a film focus on all the life that was to happen before it all, on all the living that was to be done.

fulfill. And so maybe it makes sense that now feels an apt time for me to be thinking so much about a life after it all. After class, after timetables, after cinema shifts and closing credits. I cried tonight in a cinema on the other side of town because I saw a story that confronted the after with a story of the living. Like an antidote to the idea of afterlife, I watched a film focus on all the life that was to happen before it all, on all the living that was to be done.

I’ll be leaving uni soon, and maybe my job, too. In so many ways I like to pretend, I’m still eight years old. In all the ways I can’t ignore, I’m turning twenty-four. The lifespan of a small human feels long enough to know that it had a good run. It feels enough to know that I had a life there. It feels like just enough to know that there’s more, there’s other, that there is a life after. It feels enough to know that I’m ready for it now; to move closer to the after, and to do all the living. I finish my degree soon – I have only two subjects left to

I’ll be leaving uni soon, and maybe my job, too. In so many ways I like to pretend, I’m still eight years old. In all the ways I can’t ignore, I’m turning twenty-four. The lifespan of a small human feels long enough to know that it had a good run. It feels enough to know that I had a life there. It feels like just enough to know that there’s more, there’s other, that there is a life after. It feels enough to know that I’m ready for it now; to move closer to the after, and to do all the living.

Halfway up the street I used to be free I used to be seventeen Follow my shadow Around your corner I used to be seventeen Now you’re just like me Down beneath the ashes and the stone Sure of what I’ve lived and have known I see you so uncomfortably alone I wish I could show you how much you’ve grown Downtown hot spots I used to be on this street I used to be seventeen I used to be seventeen

Now you’re half shy Hanging on my block Sun coming up

is my shadow?

Immortals

On a random Tuesday, sometimes an acquaintance of yours dies. A not-quite friend. A guy you had a class with and followed on Instagram. A guy you briefly knew for three years. How do you grieve for an acquaintance; for someone you found annoying; for someone you will never see again – not that you would even if they were still alive –?

There are no acquaintance-specific stages of grief, although you will experience shock, denial, anger, pain, guilt, bargaining, depression, and acceptance – or at least follow other people as they go through these stages –Instagram story by Instagram story.

This is a personal account of what happened after you died, from the perspective of an Instagram follower and acquaintance.

First, you die.

You died one year and one month after graduating from high school, aged 19. You were the first person to die from your high school’s graduating class. Too soon. Too young.

Your death is not in the news. No headlines.

Within the next 24 hours, your closest friends and family hear the news. They post on their Instagram stories photos of you with statements expressing their grief.

Your best friend makes a GoFundMe on your parent’s behalf to pay for your funeral. I paid $20 to your GoFundMe. Your life was worth 20 Australian dollars to me.w

I cried for you, and I cannot explain why. Was it out of empathy or sympathy? I am not sure. You were in VCAL while I was in VCE, but we were in the same Sound

Production Class in years 11 and 12. You were a familiar face I would walk by in the hallway. I barely remember anything about you, except that you and your friends were a classroom annoyance. And yet I still cried, alone in my bedroom.

I will never walk by you again.

Within 48 hours, Facebook posts are made by your Facebook friends. Thumbs-ups and hearts from people who knew you.

Five days after you die, a funeral notice is published in the Herald Sun Tributes and on mytributes.com.au.

After eight days, a funeral service is held.

You are buried eight days after you die.

Three months later, your friends are still posting about you. Sharing their memories of you, grieving. Using their Instagram stories to tell your story.

I still follow you on Instagram. Your Instagram and Facebook accounts remain unchanged since your death; unless they are memorialised or deleted by family, friends, or next of kin, submitting evidence of your death. (You can also allocate a legacy contact to take control of your account once you die – you did not –.)

It is as if you have forgotten to post for a while, a temporary hiatus. You live on in ones and zeros. Immortalised, until Meta deletes your inactive account – after how long, their terms and conditions do not specify –.

Amelia Geiss

words begin

The Breath of the morning came like the breath Of each morning before it – in stony yawns. And the Breath of the morning came again From nothing – in the darkness of a formless

Place which speaks in entangled rhyming scheme, In hieroglyphs of whispered mutterings. If there is any time which the dead speak It’s the time in which we all retreat

Static, white, glass window, light. The legs wobble; the knees bend; words begin. What once itched now begins to sting.

and there is a tree growing on the sidewalk and there is the road and leaves on the road and the leaves on the trees and across the road with the tram tracks the road going down and the long tracks and the station and the people waiting there and the boots and the shoes the sandals the socks and pants

and the city in the distance the gardens and the rotunda

and the autumn leaves like a movie from the 90s with old houses and lamps and construction workers and electrical tape

and the pub with no one in the pub and the streets with cobblestones which the water runs down and the cars and the noise of the city and the streets

Under the covers to warm our feet. The voices come to prod at our voicelessness. and

Stop! Did you hear that?

I heard something. Did you hear?

Stop. What’s that you hear?

Silence

In itself.

Night falls.

The universe yawns in its non-statement With no words to shuffle about, As we redraw patterns – oblivious in ourselves.

Charlie Borracci

Death of a poet

When today is gone and yesterday can never be again, where will we go tomorrow?

What might it be like beyond the veil, where another realm co-exists alongside ours, watching isolated muses ponder their lives, whilst the realm of those passed move freely, and alone.

Will it all take place up in the sky? Through the heights of the towering treetops and pass the brewing storm clouds, up into the atmospheric realm of a universe. Might we meet divine beings who have watched on for many lifetimes.

Pondering for many hours more, I sit amongst golden religious walls. They hum with frequency, low and reverberating, I am holy and content.

I watch sunlight peer through the stain glass windows, bringing the illustrations to life through the

humble rays. I sit still, with no connection to a god or religion. Yet, I sit with a sense of sacrality warming me. Through the silence, it’s only you that I long for.

I feel the weight of the sun and it’s you through the beams that speaks to me. I hear you when I lay underneath the night sky and pray for more stars to show me my path. You tell me time moves fast but to look up and keep moving. I feel I no longer have the chance to look at my feet and analyse the ground below me.

To feel close to those who were once with me, to believe that they will be close again. Not through the stories we share or in the framed photos on the walls. But holding my hand, a tight squeeze that conveys a world of reassurance.

I have fallen in love with the sea that swallows me. Although I am incessantly

submerged beneath its waves and choke on the water, I have convinced myself that the wind will sweep me up and save me.

The absence of you was so quiet that one could hear the echoes of your laughter left behind. I can still picture your face, every single indent. I can feel the warmth of your skin pressing against my cheek when I hug you. I still recognise the smell of your perfume, lingering through the seams of your sweater.

I want to live without the knowledge of an end being as near as it is distant. It is through the mundane regime in which we live in ignorance of what comes after this world. To pass onto the next life, will the weight on our shoulders lighten, will the aching we endured mean anything at all?

Without knowing what is around the bend, the unknown becomes a hindrance

of all belief. We might as well be certain of being a bird destined for an eagle’s sky. Why not choose to act as though death is a far-off future, and maybe in some future centuries from now, I’ll be a poem, or a tale told by an ancient oracle in the thronged depths of a cave.

My soul might travel into the next life or find peace to reside with the souls I have met along the way. We live without needing to know why. All we know is we will never have today again. Our today is gone forever. Maybe my today is pilled under the obligations of work or underneath the raw wounds of woe, open like fresh cuts ready for a salt bath.

Might it be possible to live without the morose thoughts of mortality burdening my hopes of flight. I want to live as though this life amounts to nothing but more, where I might see you again in my next existence, holding my hand once more.

When the sun shines down, and birds sing Happy families and kind words from strangers

Oh I wish things would stop of a minute

i grieve your death at the footstep of memories

Death is the closest the living get to afterlife. How does it taste? Is it as disquieting as the journey to the end? How does your heart beat now that it’s all quiet, now that you are not with us now that you don’t count as living? Whom do you remember? What do you see? How does it feel to be my past, my memories, my aching heart?

Silence. Silence that doesn’t hold answers. Silence that doesn’t sound peaceful.

What is life if not a riddle of retrospective that none can answer?

Grief is essentially the last gift from the parting, the worst too. Grief is a love letter, my tears, the shards of my broken heart. Grief is moksha for the heavenly abode, the ultimate revelation of love from the realm of the mortals. A gift.

What is life if not volunteering to grieve, gift and be gifted?

Memories are the ripple across time, the shrine of remembrance and the dungeon of tribulation. Memories are what I have stored behind the floodgates of my tears. Memories are my invocation for deliverance from your absence.

I choose to embrace you to heal my wounds or in moments like these when you are my wound.

Death wears the veil of darkness, but verily she is the bride of the dying, the way to the gates of heaven is her aisle and your dying heartbeat the wedding bells. Her inevitability are your wedding vows, so let me ask what’s obligatory: Do you accept Death to be your destiny?

Your silence is the reply; goodbye. Her power is so palpable but so is my denial. In my denial of your demise, I have sought her acceptance. Now I only await her as I hope you await my arrival at the entrance of the afterlife.

Till Death Do Us Part.

His comatose sleep was coming to an end.

The breathing slowed.

Each breath ticked away down to his last.

I could count it down on my fingers.

This was terror.

This was dying.

My breaths got shorter and shorter with his.

He was taking me with him.

An invisible hand clasping around my throat. 321.

He passed.

I’m still there.

Yunlin Bai

I climb up the glass stairs with a little box in my hand.

I whisper into the box, “I’ll cherish you forever”

I step into the light and my hands are empty. So is my mind. I wonder what’s next...

The afterlife is a waste of time

I was fed the angels and clouds and pearly white gates. The heaven or hell, hot or cold, good or bad. “If you do good things now, you’ll be better off later.” People will still miss you. You will still be cold in the ground or scattered in a destination of your choice.

The afterlife sounds a little boring. A tad predictable. Is my forever the same as yours? But your kitchen smells like coffee, and my bathroom is haunted. Aren’t we a little different to share eternity?

Is the afterlife better than what’s in front of me? I fear my head would explode if that were true.

How does heaven compare to getting frozen yoghurt with my dad?

How does it compare to a song that takes you back to the plane you came home on? How does it compare to the look on her face when you tell her an embarrassing story from your childhood? How does this ‘afterlife’ look when pitted against a quiet night and a block of top deck?

A new spark with an old friend?

Will my dead heroes be waiting for me with open arms? The friends I didn’t get to say goodbye to? I can see why I’d want to buy into it all, can see why I wouldn’t look around for the perks of living.

Why would I plan my funeral when my birthday is around the corner? Ultimately, I like it here too much to waste time thinking about what’s next.

I sat down with the Angel of Death and here’s how that went.

Patrick Marrinan

We locked down an interview with the Angel of death in early march 2023. Catalyst’s upcoming issue about After-life seemed like perfect timing and to our delight (and to everyone else’s misery) Death was in Melbourne. We met for a 40 minute interview at The Carlton Wine Room in Carlton on the first of March.

Thanks for taking the trouble to meet with me Death.

Yeah I was actually already in town but this is fun, thanks for taking an interest. People often try to avoid me more than anything.

What brings you to melbourne?

Visiting family.

Are they originally from melbourne?

no no I was just visiting families. Oh I see!

Yeah a few people died sort of in a row and I was like yeah we’ll do those ones this week.

Could you explain something for our readers, you can’t be everywhere at once, and yet you told us you visited people to…

Give them the touch of death…

Yes. But people die every second all over the world. Do you visit every single person?

I’m not Santa Clause, *laughs*

Death, since you’re here, in lovely Carlton. How does it work?

Okay basically, thanks for asking this by the way, hopefully this won’t come up again. So, you know how a quality assurance officer works. The Officer comes down to the factory once a month to make sure all the orders are going out correctly and there’s no errors or outliers, right. Does the product still get delivered even when the Quality Assurance officer isn’t there? The answer is yes. For every 5,000 products, around 50 of them were quality checked by the officer.

If I just stayed in bed every day for the rest of eternity, deaths would still happen, people would pass on to the great beyond whether I’m there or not, but it’s important for me to visit roughly 10 people a week and personally deliver them as to make sure the symbol of death is understood and that people

are getting to their location properly. ance.

Do you pick who to visit?

I just pick from the bowl at random.

Have you ever intentionally visited meet them?

*laughs* Unfortunately I did, I delivered

properly. I’m quality assurrandom. a celebrity in order to delivered David Bowie when

he passed. It was so special to meet him but I do regret it. I never pick and choose and it’s not proper to take advantage of my position. I saw the Lazarus music video from the Black Star album and I remember thinking “I have to deliver him, this is a once in a lifetime chance.” It didn’t make a difference in the grand scheme but it meant a lot to me, I won’t be doing that again.

What other Bowie albums do you like?

The Man Who Sold the World is a killer album. I really liked that one. The Width of a Circle is 8 minutes long man! 4 minutes in, you start to feel like where is Bowie going with this and then it just… your readers need to listen to that whole album if they haven’t. Width of a Circle is an amazing opener to a kickass album. I was also really impressed with the Black Star album, it might be to do with the timing of his death and what was going on with him at the time and his legacy but Black star really was great and has aged well.. I also really liked the music video for Lazarus.

Will I see you when I die? No.

Will any of our readers?

The safest and most honest answer is no. Unless you’re David Bowie. *laughs*

How long will you be doing this job?

This is an eternity deal, but it’s not difficult so I’m not unhappy about it. I have a great time just watching tv shows.

What’s your favorite show? Probably GoggleBox.

Do you have co-workers?

I once had a boss but he’s passed away.

I see

I shook his hand *laughs*

Death that’s all we have time for, you are a very pleasant person it’s been a pleasure.

Absolutely, this was fun, sorry I didn’t have time for more, if you do another issue I can probably do something on Zoom? But we’ll see.

See you soon Death, thanks again.

purple bottle

Waking up, everything seems to be in its place, but something feels off

My favourite yellow drink bottle has turned purple

One that I could imagine my favourite colour is in another life

The shade of butterflies and lavender along my windowsill

The colour of my bedroom walls and favourite pillow

But I am sure my drink bottle is yellow

Everything else in my room is the same, and yet the air is different

The sheets on the bed now are those that were in the wash yesterday The sunlight doesn’t shine as bright in here anymore

I feel lost, but how can I when everything looks the same If you saw me, how could you tell that something was off

Something has shifted

But maybe I have always had a purple drink bottle and wished that it was yellow

I know somewhere I do wake up with a yellow drink bottle each day A place where the music sits nicely And I feel like myself A place where I wish to be

One day I will have my own yellow drink bottle

I am sure of it

Charlie Borracci

Column

Preface

Whether one believes in annihilation or life-after-death is fundamentally whether they are essentialist or existentialist, whether they are monist or dualist.

The absence of working biology is what death is; if the existentialistwhich supposes that functionality comes from structure - believes the mind comes from the brain then must also believe: when the brain dies so does the mind, when the sensory organs die so do their function. Therefore by the existential framework death is the absence of senses and the interpretation of those senses, thus annihilation. The connection of essentialism with life-after-death is a commonsense one.

There is a common idea for those who are secular, and unspiritual to believe in complete annihilation after death. The issue of this statement is that since all answers to the question are infallible by the very nature that we are the absence of death; and the secular answer is explicit and defined, this relation brings those people under epistemological hypocrisy. With that hypocrisy comes scrutiny of the type of people who adhere to it “as the most rational answer”. Annihilation came as a response to the metaphysical ideals of life after death - with its footing just as rational as the former - makes me deduce that there is a societal implication for what you believe. Its societal purpose is as a renouncement of religion.

Death is to relive forgotten days

With this preface I decided - for the comfort and peace of my mind - to view the problem in this lens; in short: death is the 14th wednesday of 2009.

What happened that day?

What was its date?

This day occurred most definitely, and things surely happened. Though, however much we try and try to recollect the events it never comes. On that day you did not exist, because of that fact. It is void, you were void that day. You cannot bring together your senses of that day back for a meaningful experience. That day is truly nothing.

The comfort of this idea comes from the fact that I do not actually care what happened that day, the experience of void that comes from that day does not make me feel sad nor happy; because ‘void’ intrinsically implies no emotions. The metaphysical comfort of this idea is - though I do not carethat day is, in a small part (the totality of life is the summation of its parts), impactful to me this very day. One of many pragmatic examples of its significance is: that day was a habit forming day. Death, though void of everything, is still impactful.

This idea unites the cold annihilation of existentialism, and the warm meaningfulness of essentialism. I will talk personally now. There is no real evidence that death is actually to relive forgotten days, but the phrase is a nice one. It acts as both common beliefs. Annihilation as the void of everything on that day, and life-after-death as it still brings you somewhere rather than nowhere.

Further, when I say this idea to others - when asked “what happens after you die”- it is commonly met with confusion and/or curiosity; whereas the other ideas have a societal connotation to it. For example, if I were to say annihilation I would be thought of as renouncing God, and if I said I believed in life-after-death I would be seen as irrational or based on faith. In saying this unique idea, people do not have the societal influence in their judgement, and thus can judge me more accurately. The idea gives off a metaphorical undertone, which denies it the postmodern criticism of being explicit and defined as a response to a question that does not allow for clarity.

Phillip Rafoo

Ishaan Ambavane

Eternal Hope

Springs

i expected to lie in my grave tranquilly

the voices in my head finally quiet resting but afterlife my thoughts are still alive filling up my coffin

ifs buts coconuts would’ves could’ves should’ves thriving i haunt me

maybe he’ll come visit my grave hope springs eternal?

Radha Sekar

A Matter of Life and Death

A Matter of Life and Death, from 1946, follows a unique story; Peter Carter, a World War II fighter pilot, crashes his plane and is by all accounts destined to perish in the crash, but due to a mishap on the part of a guide meant to escort him to the afterlife, he miraculously survives. This mishap does not go unnoticed however, and Carter, who has fallen in love with a radio operator, is taken to a court of law, where he must prove that he has the right to continue living on account of his love for life itself and all it entails.

The afterlife (here referred to as the Other World as opposed to Heaven, a deliberate choice to depict this realm as less restrictive) is presented rather strikingly in this film, in that it exists to be juxtaposed as a neutral force against the overwhelming positive depiction of the world of the living. The Other World is notably cast in black in white, whilst the world of the living is in colour (“One is starved for technicolor up there” – an actual quote from the film!)

Carter’s devotion to his lover, June, the radio operator whom he first met whilst radioing a distress call during his crash, is symbolic of his devotion to life itself. June was the last taste of love Carter experienced prior to his aborted death, her voice signalling to Carter a last hope.

Simply put, A Matter of Life and Death exists to show us the beauty inherent in the world of the living.

We feel the devotion Carter has to his life, and his genuine desire to live it. There is, interestingly, little belief from him that the Other World would be better than what he already has, something that runs counter to religious beliefs about the afterlife and all the pleasures it apparently brings.

The world of living is full of change, progression, and love… it’s colourful! The Other World is stilted, locked in time (its inhabitants are forever wearing the clothes they died in) …it’s in black and white! The afterlife in this sense is a necessary force to uphold the law of the universe, but the gift of love is one worth experiencing.

“You claim you love her.” “I do love her! “Can you prove it? “Well give me time, sir. Fifty years will do.” ”But can you prove it?” “Well, can a starving man prove he’s hungry except by eating?”

“Would you die for her?” ”I would, but, er, I’d rather live.”

Malachy Lewis

Dear Diary, There’s piegeons in hell...

AGAIN AND AGAIN ... AND HE GOES AGAIN AND AGAIN... AND

AND HE GOES AGAIN

Anonymous

Rumbling, Crashing. A Rock

To be thrown

Into the lake. Rumbling, Tumbling, Down. To be sunk

To the bottom. Unweary of what’s above; Unweary of what’s onshore.

But the waves, She’s Raging, rushing, roaring At him, So he would leave.

Lost and unready, Ever the same as he goes, Out of the water; Rolls in the sand

He reaches from below,

Again and Again: Ramming Crushing

Growing up I didn’t think my life was any different. Sure all my friends had two parents, and so did I.

I remember walking out of primary school when I was nine years old. I wore a yellow bucket hat with the strings that I use to chew, but don’t anymore.

Dad was standing at the gate in a blue 3/4 zip which has a burn mark on the left arm. His hair has been greying recently but I remember thinking he still looks handsome. He’s still my dad.

He’s not usually the one to pick me up. Mum usually drives her silver Volvo to the pick up with a snack. Dad doesn’t bring a snack but it’s nice to see him.

He gives me a hug and asks about my day and says he’s parked in the streets further away from school, so we start to walk.

I show him my favourite tree on this walk. I tell him it smells like Christmas even though it’s not Christmas any time soon but the flowers are pretty and I like to walk past it. I smell the air. He stares at his brown workers boots.

Now I look back and understand that dad wasn’t there to pick me up to see me. Well, he was, but he didn’t have work anymore. He wasn’t fired, my dad doesn’t get fired, his contract just ended.

Now I understand that dad was sad. But not sad in the way that comes and goes but in the lingering way. Mum says he’s always been the type to stare out of windows and into his dinner. And watch movies late into the night.

Dad still looks like dad, and he still smells like dad. He’s just home more often now. And I like to spend time with him when he’s not sad. Sometimes we go camping and that makes him happy.

He speaks about his mum and the time he wishes he had with her before she died. It was breast cancer I think. And dad was small. I think he was mean to her or something when he was my age and he regrets it. He tells me whenever we fight. But he’s been thinking about her more recently.

On our holiday at the beach we were fishing. He wasn’t speaking as much as he usually does so I thought I should ask about her. He tells me that she was a nice woman but he had a complicated relationship with her.

I had never really seen dad cry before then. But I kept looking at my fishing rod so he wouldn’t feel watched. If I’m quiet for long enough, I was sure he would tell me more. And he did.

When I was eleven dad gave me a blue stone. It was round and made of heavy glass. He tells me to run it between my fingers whenever I feel worried or sad and remember how smooth it feels under my fingers. Look at it and see how beautiful it is and press it against my face to feel how warm it is.

I lost it. But I think about it often now.

I sat spreading my toes in the sand with my dad in silence when I was fifteen. He explains that he feels one with the ocean, and that his soul was born of it. And when he passes, he wishes to return to it. I understood why he felt that way, but not why he was telling me.

Mum said work has gotten harder for him. But I was sure he could get through it. He always does. I just wish I saw him more.

When I was eighteen, I couldn’t get out of bed. I wondered what was on the other side of this feeling. Dad was home more often again, and so was I.

I hid away in my room and made artwork that screamed. I was angry and sad at the hand I had been dealt, and I was upset at him and we fought more. He was distant and far from the man I had known as a child. He no longer smiled, or went fishing or spoke of his mum. He didn’t speak much anymore really. Unless it was about money and how much we have left.

For an art contest I painted a portrait of him. He was holding our dog, smiling. The didactic that hung beside the work spoke about how much he means to me. How much I miss fishing and camping.

He cried again. I knew something hurt within him and for the first time, I understood then that I felt the same thing.

At twenty I speak to Jo. She tells me that dad lashes out because of his troubles, and that it’s a good thing that I sort out my own health because he isn’t doing so with his. She tells me that I can’t tell him what to do or how to get better. He has to want to do it himself, but he doesn’t.

I leave her office and the sun hits my face. My mind is quiet in these moments and I walk to my car jangling my red and gold keys. The tears dry on my cheek bones.

When I’m driving I think of who I am because of him, everything he has taught me and everything I have learned from watching him my whole life. I think about our relationship and how it has gradually soured. Despite us sharing a house, we rarely see each other.

And as he plans to sell the house, and move away, I am reminded of how much I miss camping and fishing with my dad, and how I would do anything to be with him like this again.

I hope he becomes happy again soon. I miss dad. And I hope to see him at the ocean.

Last signaL

Oh hey, hey hey...

I finally got a hold of someone, thank fuck… it’s been weeks.

Or, actually, I don’t know. I can’t see the sun anymore. I’m too far down. It’s hard to tell the time with no sun or any light for that matter. And I don’t have a watch or my phone. God I miss my phone. Wait can I use yours…

Argggggh

Did it work? I was trying to open Twitter. Is it open?

I guess even if it is open I cant see it so what’s the fucking point. *little moan* I can’t actually hear you but I know it worked this time. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I can feel your presence. Feel the heat of your breath and the thud thud thud of your heart valves opening and closing. I can feel your presence more than I could feel anything about anyone when I was living. I can feel you, wherever you are, but I can’t see anything. I can’t see anything but the dark I’m in.

I never thought it would be this hard. It’s not supposed to be this way, right? I’m supposed to be in some white light hanging out in a heaven or a paradise or something.

Or I was supposed to be reincarnated into an animal or new person reliving life from a different perspective with no knowledge of my previous carnations.

Or, for that matter, a freakin’ spirit wandering around hopelessly with unfinished business. I was not supposed to be stuck here.

I know you can hear me, so listen up. As far as I’m aware, none of that stuff exists. Or maybe I wasn’t good enough to get that.

I don’t really know what happened to me, or if it happens to others, that’s what sucks about being trapped in the coffin you were buried in. Okay, nevermind everything sucks when you are stuck in a coffin.

I guess you could call me a ghost but I don’t exactly have a form or a spiritual outline like I thought I’d have. I’m more of a consciousness stuck in a body I can’t control. I’m stuck here, I fucking hope it’s not forever. I would have probably lost it if you weren’t here…

Please don’t go...

The Biggest Fear.

The biggest fear. It’s almost as scary as having to share it. Parked the rain-soaked cinema carpark with your high school best friend. Hitting 2am on a phone conversation. The third date at the burger place on the corner.

Tell me your biggest fear?

I could lie, and stay on the surface. Palm out, arms length. Let’s keep the conversation light.

Don’t scare them.

Spiders, heights, small spaces. Those images of holes in hands and feet.

Sleeping through my alarm.

But if I’m honest, what chills me to my bones is what happens after we die. Not in a morbid type of way, but in one that pushes against the confines of my own mind. A thought that sends me in circles like livestock tied to a post. The way in which each organ, system, neurotransmitter just shuts down, like Christmas lights on a January evening. A peaceful final thought bridges the gap between living and not. The moment between consciousness and the lack thereof is an excruciating limbo that I can neither understand nor fathom.

What happens after we die? It does somersaults in my head as I lie very still.

My fear doesn’t come from religion, or science. It’s both and neither at the same time. It’s an unknown space that only those who are unable to report, are able to experience. There is nothing so equally trivial and breathtaking. What happens after we die? My mind wanders to cartoons of clouds and pearly gates, threats of gnarling trees and slick black rivers, or floating iridescence that stands between two loved ones as they argue. Some say your next life waits patiently for you to jump from one to the other. But what if it’s nothing? A starry galaxy or black and white light. I don’t know what’s worse; a void of unawareness upon entering the afterlife, or a painful clarity that looks at life through death’s eyes.

One thing that this fear brought with it, is an appreciation for the life of the living. An uncertain assuredness. A colourful bleakness. A motivation to grasp onto something tightly. A loved one, a song, a passion, a place. An inclination to let one of life’s great mysteries remain that way.

Why wonder what’s after, when there is so much of the before yet to see?

NOTES:

NOTES: