Emotionally profound moments: are they few and far between? Or in every breath, every touching word or action spoken by certain other? Do they have to be life changing or soul transforming? Or just something that makes you change the way you look at life for a while?
There are profound moments that are everlasting events that affect us: death, birth, relationships and the usual events that make up the lives we lead. But every day, we swerve in and out of moments that make us think; moments that make us catch our breath and loose sleep. Pictures run through our minds, scenes on repeat and conversations caught in a phonological loop. We close our eyes- blink; a second and we see it. It flips and plays, echoes its tones and we feel it.
The consequence lies with us. It’s changed us. Deep down, somewhere beneath the skin and the social construction, its driven its nails, grown iron roots and strangled anything that could stand possibly stand against it.
When days run past like a lost time portal on repeat, profound moments take on different levels. There are the moments that I like to hold for a short time to give me a smile or laugh, to feel how lucky I am in life, inspired by the people I work with or the one I live with. The thankfully humble moments, which change my perspective….for a while, at least. They can be a cheeky comment that reminds me that I can’t control others reactions to me or an emotional outburst that makes me realise that I’m not always emotionally equipped to deal with other peoples pessimism.
They are recalled when I’m feeling sorry for myself and I wonder where my sense of humour has gone or when I’m feeling bigger than others to remind me that I’m not always prepared for what life throws at me. They are profound, because they stay with me- they break down an ego defence or remind me not to take life too seriously.
But profound moments can not be scripted and can not be forced. We can see an event as important, bearing significance in our lives and a change in our thoughts. But is it profound? Does it shake the bones? Boil the skin?
An every day moment with the knock-on effect of inspiring insight, but rarely do they shake me to the core and blister my skin with a melancholy that makes it hard to breath. Rarely do they stay in my mind for more than a while after the moment and then only appear when they obey a recall when it’s necessary to call them. Even more rarely do they make me watch in slow motion, as life beats around me.
Never have they been inspired by television.
Twenty-six hours ago, I watched an episode of a drama serial. A drama written by Russell T Davis called Cucumber. Briefly, it follows the lives of the gay community in Manchester and in the episode I watched, a middle-aged gay guy called Lance got murdered by a closet homo/straight man called Daniel, who he’d been flirting with. The episode bought the viewer through Lance’s life from the 1960’s to his murder: his childhood, his heterosexual experience and homosexual realisation, the breakdown of his family relationships and his romantic relationships, and eventually how he came to be murdered. Wrapped up and cleverly edited in around 45 minutes.
It wasn’t a tale of twisted tragedy, but one of dealing with the loss of his mother in childhood, a dominant sister and repressed teenage desires. The times and his Afro-Caribbean background gave rise to a homophobic environment and despite a heterosexual relationship in university; Lance was eventually open with his sexuality and had contact with his family throughout the years, albeit briefly on the doorstep and only at Christmas.
Yet he was successful, sociable, rich and enjoying the scene of booming acceptance on a wider scale. He was clubbing and renting expensive apartments, with rich, handsome boyfriends occupying his time. And a sadder chain of events- the death of a long term boyfriend from AIDS and a period of loneliness.
Ice softened and attitudes changed with his family and despite his frosty sister, his father accepted him and invited him in. His father died soon after Lance had found a stable relationship.
Life was rosy for Lance; he’d found peace with his family and a stable relationship with his best friend, Vincent, even buying a home together. Then it changed. They argued, split up and separated. They argued over the nitty-gritty of who was doing what when they had sex and during all of that- a villain appeared.
Every story has a villain. Every life has a few. In this drama, Daniel was a homophobic hotty with issues. A declared heterosexual, who ridiculed and verbally humiliated homosexuals with supposed ‘banter’, yet aggressively flirted with the shows victim. They worked together, so Lance, being led by his bollocks, hung out with him and showed him the night life. Laughing off Daniel’s crass, sometimes insulting comments and lapping up his compliments and innuendos. Lance’s rebellion against being tied to a relationship got the better of him- he declared that he didn’t care and despite a ghost telling him to “Go home”, he went back to Daniel’s flat.
Russell T Davis has a way of depicting life as if he were a fly on the wall. It’s as if there were no cameras in the room when Daniel made a pass at Lance and Lance nervously reacted. It was natural, clumsy and embarrassing. There were no clues obvious in the room that a reaction could be fatal. Yet you could feel it. The actors did their money’s worth and acted as if they were living the script.
As a fly on the wall you could see it in Daniel’s eyes, in his jerky, sexually aggressive movements and you can feel every fibre in Lance’s body scream “It’s time to get out”.
He refused Daniel’s offer to fuck him. Starts to pull his trousers on, tries to calm the situation with a smile, a calm attitude and humour, and yet it’s fruitless. Daniel’s simmering angry repression against his true sexuality has been awakened and it’s ready to rage.
After an aggressive tussle, Lance sits up and Daniel swings a golf club at his head.
He sits frozen, blood gushing from the wound, watching scenes of his life flash before his eyes, intercepted by the vision of Daniel curled up in the corner of the dingy flat, watching him die. He cries and smiles at the same time. Every profound moment that he’d ever felt hit his heart; every phonological loop he’d ever heard flowed through the blood gushing in to his ears and every touching moment he’d seen broke through the mucus forming a film in his eyes. He sat, rigid, unable to move and only blinking once or twice, as he watched- unable to save himself, unable to say everything he’d ever wanted to say to the people he loved, unable to hold them just one last time- unable to wipe the slate clean and forget silly dramas.
The scene blanks out. Death has arrived. With tears streaming and a head caved in with golf club, Lance is dead.
I sat, glued. Frozen, in awe of the way the story had been told and full of kudos to Russell T Davis, but I had been bolted to the back of my sofa by something else- the moment of dying.
The flashing of one’s life before their eyes is typical and not new. It has its roots in too many religious judgment day tales and spiritual reflection techniques, and I’m not new to any of them- but it was the speed of the demise and the escalation of aggression- that flip moment from risky to fatally dangerous in someone’s personality.
And the waiting to die. Lance was able to watch, blink and cry- he knew that it was the end. No more making up or breaking up; no more drama or ‘Fucking’ issues, no more smiles under the sheets or family Christmas dinners.
He felt them echo from the past and he knew none of them would be possible again.
His story was later updated in a sister show called Banana. Daniel phoned the police and confessed to the murder. The police found him in the corner of the room and Lance’s corpse in the place where he’d died.
No matter the argument, no matter the fret, no matter the twisted issue from the past- right here, right now, I want to see my loved ones again. They are few and far between, and I may not always like them all the time, but I love them and to think that I would never see them again, without them knowing I love them, would make dying a more painful process.
We can’t predict the end. That’s something I share with every human out there. None of us know what those end moments will contain. We live and breathe each day not knowing whether it’s our last or not. An enjoyable moment, a relief from our monotonous lives, a break from the drama…and we’re saying goodbye to everyone and everything we’ve ever known, possibly forever.
I went to bed, disturbed- scenes running through my head and my ears hearing a script.
The day went on, frequently disturbed by the concept of a sudden death. The aggression of the show swam like a shark through my consciousness, but never stayed. It was the snap, bang decision of the scythe and that helpless moment that bothered me. Not being able to say “I’m sorry” or “It’s okay” or “I love you”.
That.
Not how, why or who. Just the helplessness and the regret of leaving.
I got on with the day. I bought my son in to town- life goes on and we had an optician’s appointment and shopping to do. Mental occupation of abstract and philosophical ideals and emotional complications are denied in the routine of every day life. Yet everything seemed different. I watched with careful eyes, taking in the different lives weaving in and out of mine. Different dresses, colours, emotions, personalities, experiences, with one thing in common- none of us knew what that moment held and no matter what we controlled in life, we could not control that. Even the suicide victims, those with a plan and a meticulously controlled agenda to end their lives, will have a surprise, for they will not be able to control what they feel or what their body and mind will choose to show them as they die.
Then, as we were leaving, we were going down on the escalator to go down to the ground floor and out through the back doors of the shopping centre; a man collapsed and smashed his head on the escalator going up.
There was a bang- a sound as if someone had fallen heavily on metal. I looked around; other shoppers looked around and as we got to the bottom of the moving staircase, we saw the source of the sound- a man’s head looking out from the staircase going up. Two men were flanking him- a man’s heavy boots on the step in front and a man’s shoes and trousers on the step behind, all going up so no upper bodies were seen. Phones were pulled from pockets and we watched as the unconscious body was pulled from the top.
We all balance precariously between a life we claim to know and one we have no ability to predict. That’s scary, even when we don’t think we give a shit.
But what’s scarier is the moment before the ending, because we always assume whether consciously or unconsciously that we will be able to tie up our ends. There’s always tomorrow. But one time- the last time- there isn’t.
My step-father, grandparents, an ex-boyfriend, a childhood friend, an uncle and a couple of uncles by marriage- them dying suddenly didn’t incite the same kind of profound realisation of life and death as watching that moment last night- maybe, because I’d never really seen it before in such explicit detail. I’d imagined it, hypothesised the functioning of the brain and what it would probably inflict on the mind before the relief of dying, but there was always something missing-I’d never imagined that someone would regret their death situation.
I’d never seen that. In my mind’s eyes, I’d never seen someone’s expression of regret over where they were dying and had never felt it.
In those last few moments, we still feel see, hear and feel. A message to the brain, a thought takes milliseconds, but dying takes minutes or more, and we have to endure those thoughts helplessly. No more second, third, forth or more chances; no earthly sacrifices in exchange for a few more years; no medical wonder enjoying a quality of life after a tragedy.
Nothing but the unknown. Or nothing,
That moment is one that every man will be caught up in.
It lives with me…..after a TV drama. And how has it changed the way I perceive the world?
It makes me feel closer to everyone, no matter who they are. Tears will stream, words will echo, scenes will replay and pain will be felt in that moment for all of us, and we can’t escape that moment….no matter who we are.
The Secrets of Mi 
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