2050 — What I Wanted

What I wanted was to live another 87 years. What I wanted was to see my grandchild beam at me from a Paris catwalk in May.

What I wanted was to write more novels, one a year, with ever increasing quality and more readers until everybody, including me, knew my true name.

What I wanted was to go out like Caesar on the steps of the Senate with Rome behind me, knives in my back, my tunic bloody, history all around me. What I wanted was to resurrect myself, pull myself out of the swamp of self-pity, a magician turned rabbit.

What I wanted was another shock of hair, rainbow black this time round, shiny, the mane of a brigand. What I wanted was to survive my most devious antagonist and see my favorite protagonist be carried off to the literary skies by angels dressed up as ballet girls. What I wanted was to get to heaven in whatever shape God chose for me.

What I wanted was to meet some of the Russian writers who’d died long before I was born. What I wanted was drinking with Dylan Thomas until we’d both pass out. What I wanted was to look down at this Earth, all of it, with one laughing and one crying eye. What I wanted was to bed another 1000 women, or 100, or 10, or one. What I wanted was to feel a man’s thigh next to mine as if it was my own. What I wanted was to win a marathon for senior citizens.

What I wanted was to live on three continents at once, moving between houses like in a pinball machine. What I wanted was a garden residence of cedar wood to write in. What I wanted was to meet my wife again and smell the Mediterranean all over her body. What I wanted was to use bougainvillea and Beowulf in the same sentence without regret. What I wanted was just enough pain to be feeling to the very end. What I wanted was a fraction of a second to relive the best of it and the worst of it.

What I wanted was a last chat with my dad and a last hug from my mom.

What I wanted was language deep like a mountain lake with a plug at the bottom guarded by a troll-like creature with my face, a tail and princely manners. What I wanted was to be a fish, a bird, an insect and a deer at once, standing at the precipice of the world not judging, a perfect being in the final moment of my deconstruction.

What I wanted was to see aliens in the moment that they pollinate another planet with their consummate seed as if painting on a grey grounded canvas.

What I wanted was what I might get if time does what I expect it to do, namely turn around in the moment of my death and start all over again from the sweet beginning. Jesus Maria and Joseph, yes.

What I wanted” is a wonderful group founded by Susan Tepper over at the Fictionaut writers community with the prompt to write about past wants. It’s generated exciting pieces so far and I finally thought I should give it a try…I like writing about myself anyway…since I’m writing this from the POV of my 87-year old self, I should be OK, at least I hope I didn’t break the rules…I think we should all, following a time-honored tradition of Wells, Shaw, Russell and others, regularly and routinely write our obituaries. It has a strengthening, centering effect. Let the mystery out, because

«…a mystery in man’s head or breast is more inaccessible and concealed than at the bottom of the sea. » (Marx/Engels)

5 thoughts on “2050 — What I Wanted

  1. Wonderful things to want, especially the hair and the chance to do it all over again.

  2. My new Blog (I can’t afford my own blog yet):

    I found a blog called ‘Rape Ain’t So Bad,’ and I thought I would share it and ask what people think of it. I, personally, think it’s juvenile and offensive, but I will let you decide. here it is:

    Why does rape have such a bad name? The act is considered as despicable as murder, yet the result is not nearly so finite.

    Look at the concept from a different perspective, free of emotion.

    Let’s discuss chickens instead of humans.

    Why is it that a person can slaughter and eat a chicken in public and nobody bats an eye, they call it a barbecue, but if that some person were to rape that chicken before killing and eating it, there would be hell to pay?

    Is chicken-rape so much worse than violence, or have our human sensibilities crept into our treatment of chickens?

    Who decided that chickens shouldn’t be raped but murdering them is OK? It certainly wasn’t a chicken. When a group decides their own rights, the right to remain alive always comes first.

    I’m sure many a dead chicken would agree with me, I’m sure they would rather be here to discuss their rights, even with sore anuses and chicken-vaginas, than to be pondering them from the grave.

    And why is it against the law for a human to rape a chicken but not the other way around?

    Just imagine how unfair life looks from a chickens eyes, or how ugly life would be if ours and chickens’ roles were reversed.

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