He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery
The Good Book. Consolations. 27:29. Made by A. C. Grayling (2016)
I’ve never been fifty before, so this should be interesting,
like the day I finally decided to be happy—as if becoming a merry chap
greeting fellow carousers with a pint in his hand could assuage the guilt
I’d accumulated over the years—by taking dying classes
on a maternity ward.
Nothing beats the hypnotic mechanical movements
of the Friden calculators at Consolidated Life
after a week of testing spiritual resilience with Hallmark Christmas flicks.
And it wasn’t even in Technicolour—although, come to think of it,
that might actually be part of the reason
for its soul-restoring power.
I’ve heard that lovers are like buses—you have to wait for a little while,
and another one comes along; though I can’t help but add: unless the line
is closed for good, while you, unaware of it, are stuck at the bus stop,
tapping your feet and nervously checking a watch, afraid that your ride
will pass you by the moment you’ve given up and started walking.
Lately, I’ve been told to open my heart, but how am I supposed to do that
without a surgical team—and performing unlicensed medical procedures
is punishable by several years in prison anyway—and live to tell the tale?
But if you insist it was just a misunderstanding—I’m familiar with idioms
and prying.
Nothing heralds the arrival of the month of forced joy better
than binge-watching Hallmark Christmas flicks—only slightly
toned down by a reserved immersion in Russell and Hitchens
during the commercials—with all the remarkably irrelevant
characters in the spectacle of self-inflicted sorrow that some
call the holidays. After all, even a die-hard atheist like myself
deserves his guilty pleasures.
The day I forget how to spell my name will be like a violin playing
a violinist—somewhat unexpected, but not overly dramatic, calm even,
except, I guess, it’s better to embrace the little drama of the present
with backaches and cooking dinner for one while listening to Lisa’s song
played in a loop and leave the whole spelling affair as it comes
to a letter cutter.
I have nothing to say, and yet I keep talking,
meticulously combining nouns, personal pronouns, and verbs,
adding an occasional adjective here and there, so as to hide
in the multitude of dependent clauses—each introduced with the most unique
subordinating conjunction I can think of—my utter inability to form and express
an original thought of my own (it’s a bit like in the kitchen
when you dream of your own signature dish,
or at least a decent phoritto or some other fusion food,
and you end up reheating a ready-made meal, glad
you didn’t burn it).
Do you remember that feeling
when you finally find out what the melody is
that has been haunting you for months,
after you’ve heard it just once by chance,
only to be played all of a sudden
by the violas and cellos—an ostinato
carved into the black vinyl—as a farewell
to the kind of reserved innocence
you often only begin to savour
when it’s already too late? I do.
If only you had realised then
that you could survive on a single act
of desperation.
I pulled an all-nighter, struggling
to keep my eyes open at times,
just to watch two cours in one sitting
of some old anime I hadn’t seen in years,
and it wasn’t even my favourite one.
But it’s not like I planned this;
it just sort of happened out of sheer inertia,
as if my body decided it for me,
the same as not showering for weeks
or staying indoor with the curtains drawn.
hidden pilcrow 