Death

The perennial green of the heath

The falling sun

The leaving trees

I run

And all I see is death.

I wrote that. I went for a run yesterday, and I was thinking ‘this is beautiful, real nice like. If I were a poet, I’d write a poem about this’. And then I thought, ‘except I’d have to mention the death’. And so there it is, my poem about how nice my daily runs on the Heath Extension are, except for the death, which is everywhere. About a week ago I had to practically hurdle over an enormous dead rat. Three days ago it was a pigeon, proper murdered, intestines everywhere. And today there was what looked like the bottom half of a squirrel, tail and all, except there were feathers all over the place so I suppose it must have been half-squirrel half-duck or something.

I’m almost scared to go out for a run. It’s awkward enough with all the dog shit everywhere and the weird I’m-looking-but-I’m-not-looking-at-you looks you give and receive from other runners. Then there are all the people stalking their pets through the bramble with little black bags, trying to kidnap their poo. I tell you the whole thing’s becoming really unpleasant.

At this rate I’m going to have to re-subscribe to the gym, and I vowed never to step foot back inside that Molochean enterprise when I saw a man actually sucking liquid out of the eye of the water dispenser. I always had my doubts about those machines – all that sweaty breath at such close proximity to the source of the spring. (Also, since we keep going back to talking about shit, there’s also a silent competition going on in the men’s toilet to see who can produce the biggest, fustiest log. They are left on show for all to admire, like some disgusting art gallery or food counter. ‘I’ll ‘av that one!’ Foul).

But the death – it looms large, like the porn, in the public subconscious. The recent fascination with the death of Jade Goody is just one example of a public anxiety which is worsening. The combined threat of terrorism, global warming and flying debris is really fucking with our minds. People are more aware than ever of the threat of extinction, not only of themselves, but of their species as a whole. Wot that John Donne sed were right:

‘any man’s death dimishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee’.

It don’t matter that Jade Goody weren’t a man, because some other people aren’t men either. Besides, as women become more and more equal with men in everything but cleverishness that’s just another source of anxiety for the blokes. Innuntit! I’m only joking of course – women are crucially important and also suffer from death. It is this overarching similarity of eventual experience that I believe we all share and which trumps any sexist sentiment that the conditioning of patriarchal society might have caused in us. In fact, I actually think that women when they’re in charge, like cats when they are asleep nearby, can calm people down and instil a sense of optimism. Exactly what we need at the moment. Women of the world, the men say unite!

And then there’s that death thing again. That thing that we all think about but don’t want to talk about. That thing that informs everything we say that isn’t about it. That spectral presence. It seems even when you try to write something about death you end up talking about poo, or the gym, or women. Even when you talk about it you don’t talk about it. It's a sort of defence mechanism, but it means that whatever we say, about whatever we want, is informed and shaped by this perennial anxiety. Does that mean we’re always talking about it? And if so, what is my point?