The immediacy of our (human) existence is lost on most people most of the time; the only thing most folks get is glimpses, if that. Poet and essayist Robert Bly wrote about this and looked for it in others' work as well. In his book, News of the Universe: Poems of Twofold Consciousness, he lauded the writing (poems) of D.H. Lawrence for coming from the . . . raw, unadulterated now moment.
A lack of pre-occupation with the future and that (regret?) of the past probably can't be done without also an accute awareness of (y)our mortality, and what amounts to an inevitable peace in its acceptance. So there it is: The only place we can really live is right now, and in that now is the naked reality of death.
(Anyone seen my pair o' ducks?)
So Chris, I think that's pretty cool that you've visited some of that - and thanks for the reminder that it's important.
My last Cigar? Probably an isom custom-roll perfecto or a Partagas SD1 EL '04. But not on my death bed - I'll be doing something else there.
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