Would that I could live and die like Steve Irwin. Not that I want to befriend crocodiles or get stabbed by a stingray or anything like that, but there’s something profound in the way the man died. The day I heard the news I was awed at how befitting his death was. The Crocodile Hunter just couldn’t have died in a car crash, you see, or some other mundane accident; it would have been far too tragic. He still leaves behind a wife and two children, but now he also leaves a great legacy, and a death more epic than half the ancient Greek heroes.

Fame and everlasting glory are not exactly my life goals, but part of being mortal is thinking about my own (and hopefully quite eventual) demise. For most of history I was not around, and someday I will cease to be once again. Change is as a constant in life, and each day I wake up a new person; certainly my component cells and molecules and atoms get recycled on a regular basis, leaving “me” to exist only at a much abstracted level. Perhaps the only thing that gives me continuation as an individual is the story I tell about myself — or told by those around me. Through this narrative, the random fluctuations of my brain have stabilized into discrete patterns of personality and behavior, recognized by myself and others as the “perfectly normal human worm baby” named Sarah.

I admit there is something appealing about being remembered. People remember other people by their stories (apocryphal or not), both when they’re dead and when they’re simply not around. If the conscious individual is a lie (and I have a sneaking suspicion that it is) then the only real existence we can hope for is in those stories. The stoic in me says that all things will pass, good and bad — sit tight and deal with God’s “manly love,” lead a life for others to look up to and admire! But this doesn’t ring quite true; for my inner hedonist reminds me that those we admire most are those who live life fully, savoring it like a fine dessert that’s so good it’s worth the fatal heart attack at the end.

Crikey.

. . .

PS. Many religions have a division between the body and the soul. Traditionally I’m not fan of such dualism, but clearly my current philosophy has not escaped it. The part that I am liking is the existence of individuals on the plane of symbols and stories; it brings me one step nearer the imaginary realms that I sometimes feel are so close to being “really real.” Not that physical reality is bad! On the contrary, if there is a division, it is fuzzy as dice and leaves no side superior. There is no spoon.