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Or have I mistaken you for psychic Sylvia Browne? Everyone dies alone. Death is nothing but one big glaring example of aloneness. Not even Romeo and Juliet managed to figure out how to do that part together. Given that this is the case, why is dying in the company of others so absolutely essential?


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Probably not as many as you would think, Possibly. Especially when you factor in the numbers of people who either die in their sleep or in assisted living institutions where they are not at all surrounded by loved ones, but by other elderly people of whom they know precious little.

The whole fact of death, I will agree, is fearsome and hard to take. Entire religious traditions are built upon the anxiety with which we ponder that passage. But when you grapple with the idea that even your most social friends I assume you have a few are liable to die in circumstances not entirely different from yours at least you have the cats , then what is it that is really bothering you?

I ask. Because you do not seem as though you really want to live like a hermit, or that is my surmise, based upon the tone of the letter as a whole. And yet you have apparently elected to live that way. Was it Tillich who said: if you would be loved, make yourself loveable? I remember finding this passage really challenging as a teenager, because I believed, as a teenager would, that love should be unconditional, that that was the only pure love.

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I believed I should therefore be loved just as I was as an arrogant, insolent, lazy, rebellious, unkempt, poorly groomed, garbage head of a teenager. However: there is no unconditional love in this world, just as there is no dying other than dying alone. And if there is no unconditional love, it follows that you might create conditions in which you, Possibly, were more loveable. In which you did not have to live like a hermit and cry.

My idea of the brave journey of life, is this: that life is for being vulnerable and open.

That does not mean open and vulnerable about attacking other people for their shortcomings and inadequacies; it means open and vulnerable to our own frailties and the frailties of others. Compassion follows upon this openness and, in my experience, friends and community flow in the direction of compassion. Community above and beyond cats flows in this direction, though I am in no way judging cats. Maybe you should try getting out of the house.

And letting in the great unwashed out there. And thanks for the excellent question! Best wishes, Rick Moody, Life Coach. Willing Sense of Disbelief. Blue Daisy. The Return of the Wingdale Community Singers. Singing a Walt Whitman poem in a park in Brooklyn. Me singing a song without accompaniment at Naropa. Some other guy called Rick Moody trying to sell you a Toyota. Some Contemporary Characters.

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Four Fingers Video. Me Reading at St. Francis College. Me Reading Poems. Rick Moody was born in New York City. He attended Brown and Columbia universities. Foreign editions have been published in twenty countries. Foreign editions have appeared widely.

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In , he received a Guggenheim fellowship. That novel was followed by Right Livelihoods: Three Novellas in His new novel, The Four Fingers of Death , will be published in His album Rick Moody and One Ring Zero was released in , and The Wingdale Community Singers, in which he plays and write lyrics, have released two albums, the most recent of which is Spirit Duplicator Moody was a member of the board of directors of the Corporation of Yaddo from to He lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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Laurel Nakadate. Greenlight Books. Third Coast International Audio Festival. A radio play. A student film. Pay attention at Radio Work at Third Coast Festival. The most prized of Martian sights, if we were to speak of our neglected planet in the terms reserved for tourist attractions, are the traces of unmanned missions past.

The early Mars exploratory missions were like the old masters to us. Their gear had long since been reduced to buckets of eroded junk. And yet every time we went out into the field, on whatever experiment or mapping initiative, we looked for their tracks. As if just seeing some glorified wheelbarrow that the U. It was Laurie Corelli who used to joke about the infamous Mars explorer called Saratoga , which like so many unmanned missions to Mars had gone dark shortly after landing. From the Saratoga , NASA got a few shots of the polar landscape, where the craft had been intended to set up shop, and these shots were of gaseous vapors burning off, around the rover, as if the rover were standing in the midst of some heavenly Finnish spa.

Immediately thereafter, the Saratoga fell into silence. Another fifteen or twenty billion dollars of taxpayer money flushed down into the sewage field of aeronautic history. The interesting kink in the tale of the Saratoga , however, was that there had been two occasions, two days later, when the rover checked back in.

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These transmissions broke through the radio silence and the background radiation. In each circumstance, the rover was far from where it had been projected to be, as if it had somehow developed an ambition of its own on Mars, and was well on its way to a location of its devising. After these brief, hopeful moments of contact, the Saratoga slipped out of range for good. In subsequent years, NASA would occasionally and internally claim to have seen something that might or might not have been a transmission from the Saratoga , or perhaps even a still photo of its dusty chassis.

It was a software glitch, no doubt, that caused the malfunctioning of the navigational controls on the Saratoga. But doubters believed something else entirely. Laurie Corelli was eager to circulate the belief that the craft had not malfunctioned, or not in the way that NASA believed. The Saratoga , according to Laurie, exhibited what we on Mars now referred to as the problem of very large computing capacity. Some of our own NASA evaluative machinery had become so large in terms of numbers of microprocessors and amount of raw computing power that they exhibited strange signs of reflexivity, or even primitive stages of consciousness.

I could point you in the direction of various theorists of artificial intelligence for more illumination on this fascinating subject. However, anyone on Earth might tell you the same, that the more complicated machines got, the more they came to resemble people. On the watery planet, people could send their machines back to the techno-recycling authorities when they got uppity.

On Mars, the problem of the very large computing capacity was more worrisome. Jim said, for example, that the ultralight would occasionally refuse to land. As if it simply wanted to keep flying. Similarly, the small, modular robots that we sent down into various crevices and canyons on Mars would sometimes send back random gibberish to us and then just continue wandering off. Laurie said, articulating one of the originary myths of the planet Mars in , that the Saratoga had gone native and that we would, sooner or later, happen upon it, in some cave, like a Japanese soldier after WWII.

The Saratoga , Laurie argued, was in the wilderness trying not to be reprogrammed by Houston, and waiting to debrief us, or other friendly representatives of planet Earth, with details of all that it had seen. The Saratoga was, therefore, the holy grail of American space junk. That was why Jim Rose, on his reconnaissance missions, wanted to find the craft. It was something he talked about now and again, with an offhandedness that concealed a great interest. For water certainly.

For geological specimens, perhaps. For our rogue colonist Brandon Lepper.

But also looking for an answer as to how the Mars mission, in the near future, was supposed to feed and clothe and maintain itself in its increasingly dire circumstances. He suspected, he told me later, that NASA was going to cancel a plan to send a second unmanned rocket for resupply.

Jim had buzzed the site where Brandon had set up camp, and using some computer enhancements, he saw the kind of radio broadcasting that Brandon had made possible there. The wind currents were bad. Of course, Brandon tried with anti-aircraft pulse weaponry to shoot at Jim. Though he was probably loath to use what little juice he had for so unlikely a cause.

Wherever Jim went, he spent a little time digging and melting down the frozen loam. He collected quite a bit of the runoff from this operation. It was neither solid nor gaseous carbon dioxide, but a frosty intermediate stage. He also collected water, which was in danger of evaporating quickly, if not consumed. He was going to bring back a fair amount of this liquid gold, in drums he had constructed for the purpose. It was on the third day of his third or fourth reconnaissance mission that Jim thought he saw the tracks in the desert.