The Earth was here approximately when James died. All of science cannot tell us it was here precisely, nor would we want for it to tell us so, or to tell us anything else with dead precision implied, for it would mean our world was merely a map of our world, in the manner in which Miranda (who ironically never existed) described it so many imaginary years ago. And not much can be said (even with the optimism of claiming anything can be said about a certain something) about a life of a man tracking himself on a map, tracking himself on a map, tracking himself on a map, and so on. But, for all the intents and purposes which the human mind strives, and with some of the rigor and strictness that we can imagine adhering to a word, the Earth was here, and something can be said about it.
In deep darkness so laid James, hardly peacefully, in this spot, years ago. It can be argued, of course, to a great extent about the depth of the darkness in which James laid, giving that a hospital bed is rarely a place desired to be left completely in dark, even if it was night, especially with a patient in it, and especially that patient being James. Then again, in the fervor of impending death, of which our James was more than certainly aware, having called for Nora and Giorgio only minutes before passing, a man is sure to be devoured on some level by a darkness unambiguous at least – strength of spirit is a quality often ascribed to men which are called great by a large number of other men, of which dear James surely was a prime example, but no amount of strength can protect a man from the utterly shattering injustice of nothingness. Even if we forget that the most prominent strength James’ spirit possesed was exactly the shameless weakness and the mortality of it.
And the Earth was here as he gazed into the wretched face of nothingness. We are, so to say, blessed to share the view with him. It must be concluded then that, even if the room in which James had laid was well lit, and even if he, in the last moments of his life, had found himself completely at ease, and owing to the incredible strength of his spirit had accepted his fate with calm, even then there is a darkness to account for, and it is a darkness most common. And surely it may be said that he was made as aware of it as we are, since we share the view. It is a darkness sketched by all the things unseen from this place, the benign but miserable vacuum of everything unmapped, of there never being a map, of the infinite distance between a self and another, the sadness of being alone. What if the last fifteen minutes of James’ life were spent in the dark which differs in nothing from the dark in which he spent all the other pointless minutes of his pointless life?
And it is here, perhaps, that James cried: „Nora!“
And it is here, perhaps, that James cried: „Giorgio!“
After heading for the somber bottom of a somber river for so many somber years, he cries the names, drowning in boring realization of what he least expected – just a bit more of the same, until it ends. And that joke, of a man unmapped, told by a man unmapped, is the light James has provided, like Prometheus, for himself, and for so many of us, others. It is the knowledge of a darkness, not one of lack of a lamplight, or one of nothingness, but one of somethingness. His cries were not cries of fear or regret, but ones of dumbfoundedness and naive joy, of sincere and simple love. ‘Tis a jest.
The Earth was here approximately when James died. Tommorow it might not be, and if not tommorow some other day for sure. The view from here might change, or it might not, but if I may speak finally for myself, if I am asked in the end of my own story if I will die as a man unmapped, unsure, unrealized, I will be sure to answer:
„yes I said yes I will Yes“
because there are no words better suited for any ending, if even for a story as boring as mine.
Thanks James.
Discordō 