From Donne's Holy Sonnets:

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Add "virtual death" to the list that can make us sleep as well, perhaps?

Dubito ergo sum. It's three simple words that drives every critical-thinking cynic.

As well as many a conspiracy nut, I suppose. But those are few and far between, and often engrossed in meaningful endeavors like the Moon Landing, Kennedy's Assassination and The Protocols Of The Elders Of Zion.

Prokofy has every right to doubt as others have every right to mourn. Whatever the circumstances, whatever the truth, no good will come from this.

It is possible to do both?

No headlines.
Friends asking that answers not be sought.
Calls for Privacy and Respect.

Even with a history of jokes and pranks, this is the Big Red Button you do not hit. Ever.

Does it pass a smell test? (Do robots smell? The Mars rovers do, through chemical
analysys.) In a world where we need to take every opportunity to stop and smell the roses, should one even smell at the things we may possibly doubt and regret?

I saw Champion's obituary and wept.
I saw Yrrek's obituary and wept.
Because I knew.

And yet, I read Spence Wilder's obituary... and laughed.
Because I knew.

If I were to mourn, where am I to look to mourn?

I am a contrary and obstinate personality. Whether everybody zigs, I don't zig or zag - I zoom, I schwartz, I perfigliano. (DRINK!)

When I see the crowd move in one direction, I look back to where they are coming from and wonder. (At the very least, you can loot, right?)

When I am told to do something or emotionally/socially commanded to behave as the social norms dictate, my first impulse is to resist. I do not willingly submit to exist in cyclical sacred or profane linear time. I spiral, I meander, and I wander.

Do I follow that impulse now?

Rheta, well, I read her work, but no connection there. No spark. No meaningful bond as others now feel broken. (I think I even Volcanoed her, as I call my frequent purgings of the Friends lists on Twitter and Plurk when I just can't keep up.)

My friends are sad and in mourning, and I am sad for them. I know that for certain.

Something is gone. A bond between a body and a spirit/soul/mind... it has been broken... that's how we define death, yes? Virtual? Physical? Real?

Is this pain that is experienced not real?

What strange Age Of Man we are passing through, where to die is not to die, or to
live on as another, or as many at once, or never at all.

What is this Age? The Virtual Age? The Schizophrenic Age? The Hypocrisy Age? The Twilight Of The Capitalist Gods?

All these labels fail in one way or another. I mean, when we were all told that this is the Space Age, did you believe in your heart we, as a nation and as a species, were about to break the surly bonds of earth and colonize the face of God?

Nope. Not happening. And time will tell if it ever happens, or if

A few years ago, upon hearing the news that Andrea "Drowning Mom" Yates was pregnant and then the person responsible for that fiasco was not banished from newsmaking, but praised - I decided that we were living in The Disinformation Age. Media properties that value activism and opinion over fact, speed over accuracy, feeding endless spin to a population numbed by cynicism and wretched educators repressing critical thinking skills to promote consumerism and marketing over innovation.

To doubt is cruel, but I believe we still need a sense of doubt. To ask What and Why and How and Where and When.

If it makes those who doubt a monster under the bed, then we need that monster under the bed, keeping us on our toes.

Can one doubt without being cruel? Death in itself is cruel, so

All dwarfed by the lies we tell ourselves, the contradictions that keep us warm, the deceptions and schemes in which we find ourselves caged (but all the while, as we stare at the lock, the key's teeth bite into our palm).

Perhaps some will doubt Rheta's passing, but is it in the need for the truth, or closure?

Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Just as I said with the Second Life Resident Awards, I say it with this situation as well: No good will come from this. I call it The Prayer of St. Eeyore.

But then, Bettina is already promoting the effort to get people to plan for and document their wishes should they die and their works be orphaned... and lost forever.

Not even in Eeyore's Prayer is there certainty.

Firing up Charles Coleman's Confused.