Been wrestling the existential elefant while the sky cried. Not long ago, my tax adviser, who was also my friend, died of lung cancer. How’s that for a sombre beginning to a blog post. Almost bloody. His English wasn’t good and I presume his ghost can’t or won’t follow me here. He always made me feel bad for writing in English…I feel a little small-minded saying this. After all, I’m talking about both death and taxes, here…this was one of those days that will remain nameless: without title. What does it take to change that? Death you’d think would achieve it and indeed, I can name the days of death in my life: they were creative days, too, because to get through them sanely required a creative effort. Most creative acts aren’t grimly death-defying, of course, they’re playfully beating eternity instead. I used to sit down at the piano alone at night when I felt sad. Make music that made me even more sad. Now I tend to look for musical language of sorrow instead. Sebald’s writing does that for me right now, terribly heavy-lidded stuff, lyrical moping, existential complaints at the highest artistic level. I never know if I should trust the beautiful lady La Tristezza: «La tristezza è un’emozione contraria alla gioia e alla felicità». Sat in the car this afternoon: flag flying at half-mast, I was preparing myself for a blue ride home, when suddenly everything fell into place for no particular reason. Suddenly I knew everything was going to be okay. Never mind those odds: they’re computed by grumpy dwarves who don’t know the last thing about sun light, rain drops or pachydermata.
[First posted in 100 Days of Summer at Plattenbau]