LIFE FORCE
09/02/2006 09:29 p.m.

08/16/2006

I was watching C.S.I. and was struck by a thought as a result of a statement made by "Grissom" regarding dead bodies. When speaking to a murder suspect, he recalled his own experience with the physical aspect of a dead body. In a job that inevitably requires him to be in contact with the dead, the actual "reality" of the victim's physical death only strikes him occasionally. Its perfectly motionless position, its smell, the way the blood glistens in some places, or dries in others, and its surprising heaviness strike him suddenly as a thing of great obscurity.

Grissom was, of course, voicing his own experiences as a subtle means to get the suspect to recall his socially unacceptable actions. He wanted to link the suspect's emotional center to the memory of having committed the crime, trying to reach his conscience. He succeeded to a certain extent when the suspect replied, "I'm not a bad person." The point is not this, but what occurred to me at that very moment. Grissom's occasional realization, or rather, wonderment at the MEANING/STATE of death is mentioned because most viewers are not accustomed to dealing with death on a daily basis. Thus, to a layperson, a dead body can be a true shock to behold, a real bewilderment that is magnified by the bewilderment of a man who DOES come into frequent contact with dead bodies. People tend to speak most mysteriously about the things that they know least about, and although this is an obvious statement, it brings into question what mysteries lie right before us that we seem to miss altogether?

Most of us see death as the peak of all that is unknown. What struck me, however, is that Grissom would never have spoken that way about a LIVING body. "Well," one would say with the same logical deduction, "the living are in constant touch with the living, therefore there is hardly a need to be mystified by what we see every day: the motions and emotions we experience in time, the mechanics of daily physical and mental activity, or by the very consciousness with which we cannot imagine ourselves without. Yes, we do think about these things occasionally, but not with the same intense stupefaction as death. But I suddenly realized that this is a strange phenomenon, not because the average man does not come into contact with the dead, but because he doesn't. No, the average human comes into contact with the living, and this is what struck me as a contradiction, because we are confounded by the absence of consciousness, and not by its presence.

The irony is that we don't talk much about what's beneath our very noses because we all seem to believe we know what's there…for it is the everyday routine of living that most of us seem to have in common. But it is probably what we commonly experience every day that in 'truth' eludes us most, as nature's mask is least visible and most convincing when it can only be viewed relative to one's own self. Indeed, human beings are a bifocaled bunch as the human mind cannot construct any "reality" near or far, externally or internally, without a releative experience.

One relatable manifestation of this 'truth' is captured in that very common saying, "It was right under my nose the entire time, and I never saw it." The same seems to hold 'true' for things "too far that I can't see." But we are less concerned with distances, while our habitual identification with the "near" often leads the mind to assumptions and false conclusions. "Near" and "far" as relative concepts are both necessarily blinding and necessarily revealing. How can one ever identify the contents of a painting by seeing just one brushtroke? And how can one ever realize the detail of the painter's design when standing at the other end of the room? The problem is that we are most often unaware of being unaware...unaware that the brushstroke is not a painting in itself...unaware that the painting we see is an intricate combination of brushstrokes. When one can't separate himself from the nature, as he is part of the nature, then one can never be far enough or close enough to SEE with perfect vision. It's only at the intersection of "far" and "near", "inside" and "outside" that one can reach his SEEING potential. But well, the intersection is clear past the bridge and we are stuck in the neighborhood traffic jam.

So, why shouldn't Grissom have made the exact opposite statement? Why will he never have that far off look in his eyes when he speaks of the way a body moves? Why is he not perplexed by that which makes a person ALIVE? By that which makes a man conscious, by the mysterious energy that lies behind his every breath? Should we not be as mystified by each moment to moments' breath as we are by the last? Shouldn't we be mystified by that "thing" which keeps the machine operating, the heart beating...what is IT that sparks LIFE into the inanimate, and what is IT that extinguishes that SPARK? Why is the end so much more compelling than the moment it takes place? For isn't it more accurate to say that when we are hit by intense thoughts of mystification regarding the meaning of DEATH, it is really LIFE we are deliberating? I think it must be the question of LIFE disguised as the question of DEATH. By the way, one of the most beautiful essay's I've read on this peculiar sense of wonderment is Virgina Woolf's "The Death of the Moth."

So, when Grissom talks of how DEATH feels to his 5 senses, and the peculiarity of the thoughts and emotions that follow - the unfathomability, the mystery, and most of all, the contradictions of a reality that is unfathomable - he is actually asking the more direct and meaningful question, "What IS the LIFE FORCE?" - Because when one questions the absence of anything, one is ultimately questioning its PRESENCE.

After reading this JE, Ashok Sharda added the following insight into my inquiries:

E.F.Schumacher, the famous economist and author of the famous book 'Small is Beautiful' was perplexed by this force we ought to know as 'life energy'. In his book, rightly titled 'A Guide for the Perplexed,' he tries to perceive the life as it appears on different levels starting from the inanimate, which he equates with M (mineral,) a common element in all the levels of being. But there is something which turns 'M' into a plant. What is it? What's this force which vanishes when the plant is dead, not responding to its surrounding? What is it that holds it from disintegrating when 'alive'? Schumacher equates this force with X. He continues with his deduction and adds force Y to N and X and this turns into an animal. Y, he equates to consciousness, and man is M+X+Y+Z, Z representing self consciousness.

I wish to quote him on this issue: "To say that life is nothing but a property of certain peculiar combination of atoms is like saying that Shakespeare's Hamlet is nothing but a property of a peculiar combination of letters. The truth is that the peculiar combination of letters is nothing but a property of Shakespeare's Hamlet."

To add to Ashok's brilliant reference, I will close by quoting what I feel are the most beautifully worded realizations from Virginia Woolf's "The Death of the Moth" which captivated me long ago and moved me to identify my own sense of this fundamental and arguably unknowable question:

"The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life...It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life...He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure...One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings...Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead...[but] the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange..."