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/subject fell.  [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared almost three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating.  I directed the investigators to go back and measure/document the exact distance.]

          "Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief, seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental fatality case."

          I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window'.  My son was a good boy and I do not think that he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but even if he did, how is it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window?  I could jump out of my bedroom window - on the second story of our house - and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain my ankle."

          Non-sequitur: 

          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 (eyes still closed):  Fifty three.

Me:  What day of the year will I die?

My right hand (eyes still closed):  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 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness.  One which was, then, supposed to be 31 Dec 2012. 

          That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.

          I'm fine.

          How you doin?

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          I am attempting to point out that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-on-our-mind, which is (may be) not thought about very often.

          We would-maybe-kinda like to know when we are going to die.

          We always consider it will happen sometime in the future.  And not just the future.  Distant future.  Ten years from now.  At least.  We assume that it will happen when we are old.  And we never think we are old.  Not old enough to die of old age.

          We all always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.

          We rarely consider that tomorrow could be the last day.  And we don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives, just like yesterday arrived—that it will almost always be unknown that it is the last day.  Period.  The end of the world, from our perspective, is the end.  Full stop.

          Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, hope I don't sprain my ankle from this second floor window is our minds last.