Something About Life

You are awake. It is still dark. You’re in bed. In…Golden Meadow…no…Poplar Bluff? Um…Mexico City? Alkmaar? Hah, no, it’s New Orleans and then you notice that your head is pounding and that a sleeping cat has completely cut off the circulation in your outstretched left arm. Good morning.

Let me tell you something about life (no, you didn’t ask). Something you’ll ignore because we’re all trained to expect good advice from only gurus and angels. No, it’s not a motto or a mantra. You’ll never make it interesting enough to sell in a Disney cartoon. You could, perhaps, accuse it of being an impoverished attempt at a zen koan.

Life just is.

In that: you will wake up every morning like you have something to make of the day, a monument to erect against the flow of time, you will face it all square-on, you will spend every waking hour being, to your best knowledge, alert and engaged and really present in the NOW, you will continuously exist and you will be aware of it, and then you will inevitably tire, and you’ll unwind with a book, or a movie, or in a park, or, in New Orleans, a bar, then you will go to sleep and wake up like this, disoriented but curiously unaffected that your first conclusion is that it’s yet another day, and that your second is that you have once again failed to complete your monument. But then, despite being anxious about the way that time keeps passing faster, you’ll finally determine your position in space and time, shake off the cat, feed the headache breakfast, and get back out there. That’s life. That will to keep going: that’s the only monument you have any hope of building, when you just is because it is just you.