I found out this afternoon that my dear friend Gwen died yesterday. She was the kind of fun, loving person that touches many people’s lives. I’m really glad that after many heartaches and setbacks, she found such great happiness with her husband Mark.
I’m also glad that I told her I loved her many, many times.
” In a man’s life, his time is but a moment, his being a mere flux, his senses a dim glimpse, his body food for the worms, and his soul a restless eddy … the things of the body pass like a flowing stream; life is a brief sojourn, and one’s mark in this world is soon forgotten.”
(Apologies for stealing your picture Lorna.)
As I was driving into work today I was in a good mood. I’d had a blood test, and for once the nurse had gone straight in and had no issues.
Then I had a combination of things – a low email from a friend; a meeting with HR; and thoughts about art and life – and here I am feeling that I’m wasting my life.
So what do I want to do? Experience that high that lifts you from the mundane – I find it in art, in music and sometimes in people. I’d also like to be able to capture it in some way and pass it to other people – but I haven’t found a way yet. Words turn to dust in my mouth and my hands aren’t skilled at shaping. I have my camera, but I don’t yet understand how I can raise my photos into something ‘real’. At the risk of sounding precious I don’t yet have a ‘voice’.
Nor do I have the kind of drive or vision that moves people to live in rat invested garrets or live on a South Sea Island. I like my comfort too much – I like my home and my bourgoise life (that said a bourgoise life didn’t do Magritte any harm). So am I a coward? Or sensible? If I had ‘talent’ would I already have kicked off the traces and be ‘out there doing it’?
I guess we all want to be ‘other than we are’.