I wake. 6:50am. The first day of spring. Somehow I have made it through the entire winter without a single cold or even so much as a sniffle. I am either dead or no longer susceptible. My immune system has no reason whatsoever to be this sturdy. Perhaps I am not as frail as all that.
I still have a trace of the swollen lymph node in my neck that I had a couple of weeks ago. My inner hypochondriac thinks I am dying at all times, and of course, in absolute terms this is always the case. The matter is not one of if, but rather one of when.
When will we die?
I guess one won't really know when one has died, unless there actually happens to be an afterlife. One minute you are alive or dying, and then suddenly you are dead, and all hell breaks loose for those who care about you. They will feel a terrible loss; one hopes.
But do we also have to stick around for that? Will we have to witness all the crying and sobbing of our "love ones" from some omniscient, above it all, ghost-like vantage point? Or in some cases, a lack of sadness or complete indifference over our departing, or even worse a long awaited relief for some of those we leave behind? "Thank God he's finally dead!" they may exclaim. "That old fart was a big pain in my ass my whole life!"
Oh, please, don't be shocked, it happens.
Do you want to have an after life?
I don't.
Not for the crying and not for the rest of it. No, death is only perfect if it promises complete oblivion. Life after death would just be more of the same; more awareness of this or that. If there is a great creator, then I would hope it has the sense to know when enough is enough...although looking around at the universe, the shear vastness of it all, I have my doubts as to whether the creator had any sense of proportion whatsoever.
Obviously "it" was found of things, even frivolous things. Look at me, I am living proof of that.
And so a new day beings...all tongue in check and rises from the dead again.
My studio is a wee bit of a mess this morning but the sun outside the window is helping me get started. Moving my studio into this front bedroom was the smartest thing I have ever done since the last time I moved it here. It's a long story, all you have to know is that it began and ended in the same location over a period of three years.
I've had several studios. Only two had decent windows that looked into the world. Let me make a recommendation...If you are an artist of any sort, let me say that the most basic piece of equipment in your studio is a good window. I am not talking about windows that face other walls or basement windows that look into metal holes in the ground. I am talking about windows that have a wee bit of something in them...preferably some sky.
One of the reasons I am so drawn to the Stephen Sondheim song I am currently working on, is this need to see something out side my window. The entire song is about wanting to just get out and see something of the world. The characters in Evening Primrose live out their lives stuck in a department store and all they really want is just to get out and see something...everything. Can anyone blame them?
I remember sky It was blue as ink Or at least I think I remember sky
(Stephen Sondheim, 1966)
Basements are artistically oppressive. I refuse to ever work in one again. Simple. Don't wait for anyone else to understand your complaints about the dark. Aren't artists supposed to be able to be productive under any conditions?
Myth number 4,672, about artists, bah bye.
So, I have a view now and it's making all the difference in the world, just like I knew it would. Being connected to ones creativity is a fragile matter. It is for me anyway.
From here I can see birds soaring up above. I have to believe that my fathers' sprit is now one with them. Oh how he loved to fly, how he loved to find the next up draft.
"Can you feel that Mark? That's a thermal."
"Yes, I can feel that Dad! Can we go down now? "
"Do you want to do a loop Mark?"
"No Dad, can we go down now?"
Isn't this wonderful? Are you comfortable?
"No Dad, can we go down now?"
My father loved to fly gliders. Hell, my father just loved to fly. He started flying when he was fifteen years old and it became one of his passions for life. Whenever he would see a bird in an updraft, he would stop, point and give himself goose bumps about it. My father never held anything back. My father never second guessed himself.
"Mark, look at that hawk; he's got a great thermal... Beautiful!"
Indeed, Dad. I wish you only great thermals. I can only hope that you are flying up there somewhere looking down at all us turkeys that knew nothing of soaring no matter how hard you tried to get us to flap our earthbound wings. But I do have a window now, so every once in a while I, from my earthbound condition, I can see you flying by on the wings of a hawk, caught quite happily in the next updraft. I miss you Papa...I can only hope that you are flying to your hearts content now. I am watching for you from my window and cheering you. I will always love to sing the way you loved to fly.
Now there are tears.
One can never predict what will happen when one has a window to look out at the sky.
Some times I think I would gladly die For day of sky
Amen.
So a new day begins.
