Love, Death, Politics and December

This morning, my colleagues spent the break fervently discussing a somewhat minor event at work that would result in some – rather inconsequential – changes to about half of their working day for today. They weren’t warned in advance about this event and this was thought to be, at the least, impolite, and, at the most – though this was not directly stated - a major threat to their perceived power and self-concept. The energy that they poured into this discussion empowered them, emboldened them. Good for them. They need some empowerment and no one can blame them. But, what they don’t seem to realize, is that death is lurking all around them: in the teeth (should they have them) of a rebellious microbe, in a comet, a bus, a runaway train, in a mosquito, in a lover, in the death of a lover, in unrequited love, in the fear of love…

Where is this sense of immortality and irrelevant banter coming from? Why do we care so much about things that don’t matter? There isn’t enough time to be talking about these things. I sat there amid the chaos, my mind wandering far, far away. There are always happier and more interesting places.

Which got me thinking, what would I write, if I knew that it would be the last thing I ever wrote? What would I draw? What music would I compose? I should put together the Death Cycles: a package of art done like it’s my last day on Earth. But, of course, I would never finish it because I would aim for perfection, or as close to it as possible. Something that might make the invisible in me, visible (to me, as well as others) something that might hint at some higher truth. After all, that’s what it’s all about…no?

I could write about things that, upon reaching my ripe old age, that I now know to be true (this seems a popular topic for the last entry), except that, the older I get, the less sure I feel about everything.

I could apologize to all the people I fucked over. But, everyone fucks with everyone else, directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously. I could state with clear confidence and a clear conscience of how there is nothing in my life that I would change. And, this is largely true. Every bad event and every bad decision uncovered a truth about me. Only, I’m not completely sure whether this was truth before, or became truth after. You see what I mean? Things only get fuzzier as one gets older (and not just in and around my ears).

I would state that I wish I had had more sex with more women..older women, younger women, more black women, latte coloured, shorter, taller. Asians, Hispanics…but…you know…I’m doing the best I can. If I go to the grave regretting not being involved with enough women, it wouldn’t be through lack of trying.

As I write this, in a café in Saigon, they are playing Auld Lang Syne over the speakers. The calendar has just clocked over into the Christmas month. Time. Whoa. Slow down there big fella.

I love the Christmas month. I love the desolate lonely vacuum encased in the fragile baubles hanging from shopping centre rooftops. I love the hint, in Christmas carols, of a place that you can’t access, that doesn’t exist for you anymore, though you are sure that it once did…like the womb. Nostalgia creeps.

Life’s a funny thing. And then, it’s not. Anything.