Sunset with music, non-invasive, nice. I start to understand this quiet river as a symbol, driver, metaphor and simile . . . provocateur. Darlana, here tonight, for me, is life . . . and death. The river curves, goes out of sight into unknown, obscure, event horizon . . . Death. A major change in life, the mother of addictions.
Orchestra now playing James Bond movie theme, Gold Finger— simple,
unpretentious. Nice. This perfect evening, warm for Sweden in September.
Colors deepen . . . masterpiece evolving, still more fascinating. I’m
locked in . . . this river, life . . . and death.
As we grow older, short term memory begins to lose some staying power.
Long term memory turns up the volume, in 3D. Things done, and things not
done. A Tibetan Buddhist asked me, “If you take away all good things
you’ve done in your life, then all the bad things you have done. Who are
you now?” An interesting question.
Bad things. Remembering. Only had one fist fight in all these years,
with a best friend, of course. He’s dead now, and I swear I didn’t do
it. I’ve been fairly innocent, did a few stupid things that hurt people,
but that was not my intention. I can’t think of all that many good
things either. I once taught inner city High School . . . got to be some
bonus points for that. If there’s a judgment I should have a 50/50
chance.
‘Old’ people read obituaries, curious I guess. Can’t read the local
papers here, or understand the Swedish TV news. I do not channel surf
for English language views. It’s kind of nice . . . not knowing. But one
sees and hears of death. Once famous actors fall like ten-pins, Bogart,
Brando, and so many others, long gone, James Gandolfini, almost
yesterday. Great writers, Mailer and Capote. Is it ill advised to
wonder, how much time do I have left?
I think about the Hindu Goddess, Kali, belt of skulls around her waist,
a severed head held happily in one hand, dripping blood, more
instruments of death other hands. We symbolize things we can’t fully
understand . . . give them a name to make them seem as known, at least
identified, a label. Goddess Kali is no more, or less, than time
personified. She kills us all. No one escapes her.
Time. How much to I have left? A decade? Probably that at least, and
maybe more. Another twenty years? I would be ninety-five. If I were
asked of years, how many more I want . . . glad I don’t have to answer
that. My choice of way to make an exit? By surprise, would be my pick.
James Thurber’s wanted to be bit by a blue mamba in the Taj Mahal . . .
creative.
Things are winding up . . . this magical interlude. Music and fireworks punctuate the night. My mind still floating down the river on a raft of memory . . . exploding colors overhead.
Fantastic punch line to this evening. I’m remembering a favorite movie,
‘Meet Joe Black’ (Anthony Hopkins and Brad Pit). There’s fireworks at
the end, when death walks off with the protagonist. This river’s been a
trip for me tonight. I’m curious to see what happens next. Worst that
could happen, a rude unawakening.
Death is the exclamation point of life. I hope my sentence is a long one. Time enough to add a few more words.
