Where's Dave?

I don’t know, but I sure do wonder about it a lot. It’s no secret to anyone who’s read this blog that I’ve tried to intellectualize and rationalize Dave’s death, but here, alas, I can only speculate. I’ve never died or talked to the dead. I cannot know for sure where the dead go. I can’t possibly even know if they all go to the same place.

People of faith speak of the after-life as if they know it all too well. But faith, by definition, suggests that there’s a certain level of uncertainty. If there wasn’t any uncertainty, it wouldn’t be called faith, it’d be called certainty and religion itself would be rendered obsolete.

I’m not religious, I’m only spiritual. I imagine that when we die, our souls (and yes, I do believe in souls) are recycled back into the universe. The only issue that I debate with myself is whether or not we continue on as intelligent life or merely pure energy fields. I know that physically we’re nothing more than galaxies of atoms, of which themselves are nothing more than galaxies of particles which disassemble and erode when we die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But to think that we simply cease to exist when we die is cruel and inconvenient, and I can’t bring myself to believe it. The march of history has been long, however, and if we die and continue to exist after death, then one might argue that animals continue to live after death, as well. And this can be hard to swallow.

Maybe where we go depends on what we believe. Maybe there is a heaven and hell. I’ve always been more comfortable believing that there’s a God, or Source, and a heaven, but no devil or hell. Above all, I probably don’t believe in the devil because I deem God as simply being the universe--and in my view, the universe is both intelligent and, more importantly, compassionate. It knows and it feels. Ironically, it is deterministic but interferes with the workings of its creation (essentially, itself) when summoned. There is no place, therefore, that God is not. If the devil existed, he would have to be another universe altogether--an anti-universe.

If this all sounds like jabberwocky, it is because it probably is. However, I’ve come to these conclusions after carefully thinking them through; by having late-night conversations with myself and brooding during the quiet, soundless hours of the night. It’s my unique worldview, and it’s only shreds compared to what you might find in the texts of a philosopher. And my worldview is not in any way detached from the spirit of Dave. In fact it is, more than anything, a search for the spirit of Dave.

In life, I always thought Dave looked like a bug. I affectionately had him (and still have him) as “Bugman” in my phone. Maybe he’s a reincarnated bug right now, even though thinking of him as a bug bothers me. It’s much more comfortable to imagine him reincarnated as himself, perfectly preserved and conducting heaven’s symphonies. In one of his last correspondences (which I've shared in "For the Love of Music"), he invites his friend to listen to a song by Nina Simone in which she asks herself whether or not, and how, she will be reincarnated. The song is profound, and I only learned to appreciate it when listening to it completely alone. I believe that Dave believed he would be reincarnated, otherwise that song wouldn’t have made such a deep impression on him. If it is so that where we go depends on what we believe, then there’s little doubt in my mind that he is reincarnated right now, though in what form I can only speculate.

This much I know for sure: Dave was an organ donor, and today he continues to breathe life inside the bodies of people who, thanks to him, have been given a second opportunity at life. In a strange but miraculous way, he is still physically here.

I talked on the phone with our oldest brother Alex today. He shared with me his belief that Dave currently still lives: in our hearts. He told me that memories of him are fine and dandy, but the true essence of him can only be felt within our hearts. Everything else is an illusion. I was dazzled by this new way of looking at his spirit, and haven’t gotten the opportunity to fully absorb it yet. It may take several years before I do.

I don’t know where Dave is. Dave himself probably doesn’t know where he is. I only sigh and think of that line made so famous by a little-known group named The Beatles: “There will be an answer. Let it be. Let it be.”

The Nina Simone song can be found here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INLBcBGwr0g

Dave the Opinionated

If history bestows a heroic surname on Dave, such as it did to Alexander (the Great), I think The Opinionated fits him quite well: Dave the Opinionated. Apparently, he was a very outspoken man. Most people would tell you that he was quiet and introverted, but those who truly knew him—-me and my mom, Alex, his friend Ramon and girlfriend Gina, Joandy and the rest of his Miami family-—knew that he was the first one to speak out and up. And I genuinely loved this about my brother, that he wasn’t afraid to say what was on his mind, no matter how controversial—-and this is what made our conversations great. Even though his opinionated nature isn’t a physical attribute, I realize now that it belongs with the other four essential Daveisms.

           

I mentioned the word controversial because Dave’s opinions were often subversive and completely detached from the status quo. He probably viewed Thomas Jefferson not as a Founding Father but a slave tapper, Facebook as a glorious waste of tweens’ time (in spite of the fact that he himself had one), and organized religion as widescale fraud.

           

Sometimes his opinions stung, such as his negative critique of my ex-girlfriend. His words, swift as a snake, caught me unawares and shocked me. However, when a close friend of mine also told me the same thing, I realized that Dave’s opinion indeed had much validity to it—-and in my eyes he was absolved.

           

Other times his opinions were downright wrong. Alex can attest to this. Dave, for example, believed that watching (not playing) sports is a waste of grown men’s time. But no, no, NO! Sports have been around since the beginning of civilization and form the cornerstones of most societies. Humans have an essential, almost physiological, need for pastimes, and sports fulfill this need. Besides, sports just make people feel good.

           

Dave was a master of words. He formulated his opinions in ways that will make you giggle for a moment, and then think. The following is blasphemy, but it’s my best recollection of his opinion on liberal arts degrees (in an effort to sway me away from majoring in communications): “Bro, I’m earning $25 an hour for practically sitting on my ass watching DVD’s. On top of that, I get paid extra for working overnight. Now granted, there are times where from one moment to the next it suddenly becomes busy as hell, and I do do heavy lifting [of patients] from time to time, but 80% of my shift is me doing absolutely nothing. Now that’s a job! And I only had to study two years for it, which cost me about $800, whereas liberal arts majors go to school for four years, study their asses off, rack up $60,000 in student debt, can’t find a job for shit when they graduate, and end up working at Subway for four years before they land a job in their “field” that pays $12 an hour. That’s harsh, but in this economy, it’s true.” And indeed it is, though his speech failed to change my mind. What it did do, however, was not make me giggle and then think, but instead shiver like all hell.

           

But Dave knew exactly when to withhold his opinion. When Barack Obama was sworn in as President, I texted him CHANGE HAS COME TO AMERICA. He didn’t respond.

           

Sometimes I picture myself having an imaginary conversation with Dave. In the conversation, we are discussing his death. He is sad, remorseful, angry at himself, but very opinionated. I can hear him: “It was just plain stupid,” he tells me. “It’s like your whole life condensed and terminated by one stupid mistake. Damn.” He goes on to quote artists and philosophers, he makes analogies, and even jokes from time to time, his classic smirk flashing back like a rainbow. Even though there’s self-pity in his speech, there’s still a life-goes-on-attitude-—life after death, that is.

"And with strange eons even death may die."

H.P. Lovecraft

Prose Poem

A poem should not mean
But be.
Archibald MacLeish, "Ars Poetica"

I've thought about writing a poem about Dave, but I've asked myself this: If I do write this poem, where do I begin? Dave's story has no point of origin; even his birth seems as random as his death, and he likely got younger the older he got. Death for him was simply a return to the pre-birth state of pure energy that seemingly spontaneously yet purposefully became life. There is nowhere to begin, let's not even talk of the ending.

And how would I write it? How must it feel? It can be sober, grave as gray, but this isn't the spirit of Dave. The spirit is vibrant, life-affirming. But it can't be all praise and good times; there must be some dark moments there, some "ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas" if I'm to report the complete and utter truth. Or must it spring of its own nature and use me as a vessel of its revelation? If so, I haven't gotten the call.

Does it have to be personal, or are the themes universally appreciated? I can make it personal but that might be too painful; I can make it a case study but that might be too convenient. The approach, then, has to be strikingly unique and maintain throughout. It must endure, not only throughout but through time. It's not about making a contribution, poetry has had more than its share of those. It's about leaving something meaningful for my niece and my grand-children.

Does it report or ask? Certainly, every fact will be followed by a question, and every question by empty silence. This fact alone should render questions null, but they won't go away--they're much too sticky for that. After so long, the questions will become the margins.

Does it meander or get to the heart of the matter? The fun in leaving riddles, puzzles and enigmas might be too tempting to resist, but this is pure vanity and ego--and remote from the spirit of Dave. Truth is simple and doesn't require too many, or flashy, words. So I may have no other choice but to leave the epic saga for another, more frivolous lifetime, and focus this one on a beautiful haiku.

Does it speak or does it listen? How can a poem listen? A poem listens if you listen. If it speaks, there is the fear that it will never stop speaking, that it will be an endless manuscript. Can I risk that? Can I even say that much?

Dave's poem begins and ends nowhere and everywhere. This poem is a river that comes full-circle. This river is Tennyson's brook:

       For men may come and men may go,
          But I go on forever.

And, like a river, it is the vein of the world, nourishing its darlings with water--an ever-renewing source of life. Dave's poem must be exactly all of this, and nothing less.

Wayne Dyer

Dave did something before he died that touched--and moved--me. When I think back to the most enduring and memorable moments of our lives together, I can't figure out which tops the list. I think that this is because none of them tops the list. All of them stand together in equal significance. But this moment was especially beautiful because it highlighted how similar and kindred our spirits are. And because it caught me completely off guard.

For several days, I had been listening to Wayne Dyer's "The Power of Intention." I would regularly listen to it after I came home from school and before I went to sleep (during the afternoon). Dave came by one day to give something to our mom. When he came, I was in a half-asleep, half-awake state, so I could vaguely make out his deep voice amid the clamor of my dreams. His visit that day was unremarkable except for the fact that when I woke up and stepped out of my room, I found a CD copy marked "Wayne Dyer Inspiration." I knew right away that this could only be the work of Dave.

This moved me so profoundly that I was at a loss for words when describing this to my then girlfriend. I even made a note of it on my diary-planner. And, to my delight, the CD was filled with all-new (to me) Wayne Dyer material. This is significant because I thought that I was already familiar with all of his material. I listened to all of it the very same day!

The following is the quote that forms the theme of the Wayne Dyer PBS special, and which hung on Dave's wall when he died:

“When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bonds: Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great, and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you ever dreamed yourself to be.” Patanjali

I later discovered that Dave had also sent his father and family from Florida a copy of this CD, as well as many of his friends and colleagues--and he had several more in his possession when he died. I was still surprised that he even listened to and followed Wayne Dyer. It was so incredibly cool!

After Dave's passing, his hospital of employment held three separate memorials for him. We attended the main one, and I spoke a few words to the audience of his co-workers. I finished by saying that he had now returned to Source. I'm sure few to nobody understood this reference, but it was to the PBS special, and all that mattered to me was that his spirit understood it. Wayne Dyer repeatedly uses the word Source to describe God.

Dyer symbolized Dave's spiritual metamorphosis and maturation. It signaled to the fact that he was tired of petty preachers and motivational speakers, and sought some higher meaning in his existence. I believe that, at least in some ways, this spiritual maturation prepared him for his death.