Obituary for a Restless Soul

It’s not often that a character should write an obituary for its creator. I won’t pretend to be on the level of the great detective Hercule Poirot, but I’ll give it my best shot.

Charles Rommial Butler was born in 1978 to two damn good people, at least by his own account. According to his father, ribald jester that he was, Rommi was most likely conceived during the blizzard which covered his hometown of Indianapolis, Indiana in snow piled up so high it forced people to leave their homes through their second story windows.

According to many who knew him, he was a precocious toddler, using full sentences as early as a year old and having complete conversations with his adult wards. A dear family friend who happened also to be a librarian introduced him early to books, but he loved storytelling in all its forms, all his life.

According to his mother, when he was in the womb, she had deep, roving philosophical thoughts she never had before or since.  

He is survived by three children he loves very much, as well as extended family, lifelong friends, and, yes, even bitter enemies which he will always wish well.

(How can he still love them now that he’s dead? Well, ‘twas love that brought him into the world, why should it not follow him out?)

Now, I know that I’m just a figment of his imagination, but at the same time I also know that I am him and he is me, for no character he ever wrote was so close to who he was. I’m not sure if I should be mad at him for that. I’m not, but I suppose I ought to be.

Rommi could be difficult, but not because he was unfair. Maybe because he was too fair, to the point of being naïve. He always stood firm on his principles, even when he was confused about what they should be.

He wasn’t without vices, nor was he without shame. He accepted his flawed nature and resigned himself to it, seeking instead to plumb the depths of himself for an asset, any asset, in all that mess.

He found it in his heart, in the place where, no matter how fumbling the attempt, he sought to cultivate what he called alterocentric discernment.

He understood from an early age how different he was from others, but what he didn’t understand, until later in life, was how wide a gap that creates between people.

He came to realize after many failed attempts at connection that what most people called empathy was just limbic synchrony. This controversial take is likely still not appreciated by the herd or the rabble, but it turns out to be true.

He understood that the portion of our experience which is accessible to share is such a small—though by no means insignificant—part of who we are, that to rely on it as the sole arbiter of our conscience is a huge mistake. There is way more inner space than outer space.

He tried to explain through multiple allegories the penchant that the masses have for being easily misled by conditioning techniques which rely on our knowledge of the limbic system, and he aptly pointed out that the scale of atrocity increases in direct proportion to the degree to which people accept institutional conditioning at the expense of their own experience and critical thinking skills.

Those who put forth such bold suppositions are bound to feel the literal weight of the world on their shoulders, but as Rommi remarked in his Rommentary to The Web:

“I don’t believe Atlas would shrug. A man doesn’t take the world on his shoulders just to shrug it off. Such a one would rather be crushed by the weight than cry off his holy, sacred task.”

Before I leave you with more of his own words, I should like to close with a joke at Rommi’s expense which also happens to, somehow, be a compliment:

What’s the difference between a pompous ass and a pretentious shit?

Pretentious shits have a lot to say but don’t know what the fuck they're talking about.

A pompous ass knows exactly what they are trying to say and doesn’t care whether you get it or not. They’re going to say it because they know it’s true and it needs to be said.

Rommi was a pompous ass, and to prove it, I append below his eulogy, written by none other than himself:

“We do not acquire knowledge. We can only pursue it, behold it, and preserve it. It is not for us, but for the ages; and for each new generation who happens to stumble upon an eternal truth, a natural law, it must be like catching the sunrise over the ocean after a long and difficult trek to the shore, brilliant streaks of shimmering gold casting from our hearts the horror of the gray and unforgiving depths; or the reflection of a bright, full moon quivering about the shadows of a tranquil oasis in the otherwise searing desert of our discontent, giving in that brief moment the gift of wonder amidst the tumult of fortune's ever-turning wheel.

If you are here mourning me today, I thank you for being a part of my life. I feel that from the very day that I was born, my life, my soul, my entire being was dedicated to the discovery of a knowledge I was always doomed incapable of sharing. Yet in sharing my life with you I must have in some way imparted that knowledge, and it must in some way live on through your own thoughts and deeds. The arbiter of my conscience has always been the truth—even when I could not know it, or when I erroneously presumed to think that I did.

Truth was an elusive specter that I chased through the yawning, cavernous labyrinth of my own soul, and found reflected again and again in the mirror that was your own. Do not think that I took for granted the social nature of the human animal, even when I saw fit to isolate myself from the crowd, or, more to the point, to antagonize every single belief, conviction, tradition, and convention that it held dear. Such was my calling, even my sworn eternal duty, and I do not apologize.

But know that I loved you, for it was only in knowing you that I could love, and only in loving you that I could know. In that alone I owe each and every one of you a depth of gratitude that only eternity, and the unending conflagration of life, can repay. For there is no death, only change; and though you and I may cease to exist, existence itself must go ever on, part and parcel of the same substance which of us remains, reflecting the beauty of change, the very nature of nature; even, as Voltaire sarcastically remarked in Candide, this soul of our souls.

Many blessings. Much love. Farewell."

Where's the Love? by C. Rommial Butler

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For more of Doose the Ghost, check out The ShambElla Saga!