There is nothing to see or hear except what is not here to see

          Sometimes it's more important to note the absences, what's missing, than to focus on what is visibly present.

          In 2002, within a few short months of each other, I stopped investigating and stopped husbanding after twenty years and ten years of service, respectfully.  That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life (literally as well as figuratively).

          Before I retired, my latter years as a military investigator was spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files).  One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what the first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.  

          Example criminal case:  accident or suicide - after ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) the victim apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the window and stepped out (or fell, or was pushed).  The scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched and photographed in detail.  Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly.  Autopsy, check.  Toxicology, check.
          The only important thing I discovered missing:  the height fallen.  Nowhere in the file was there a distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk.  Added confusion:  the European second floor is the third floor in the US (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0).  The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim fell.

          Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house.  I didn't.  With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then.  So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature.  During which, I experimented with—among other things; some foolish, others less-so—automatic writing.

          With my eyes closed, in a light meditative state, I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper.  After a large much of nothing memorable the following happened:

Me:  How old will I be when I die?

My right hand:  Fifty three.

Me:  What day of the year will I die?

My right hand:  31 December.

          Even at the time I never paid much heed to it.  Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."

          Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Mypocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I again recalled my own faux-ominous date.  One which was only ten days later.

          All of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.

          I'm fine.

          How are you doing?

No comments: