On life and living…

Dear Ars Moriendi

Pierre Subleyras - Caron passant les ombres

Back in high school, our English teacher Mrs. Grundle gave us the assignment of writing our obituary, whether present, past or future. The purpose wasn’t to depress us or even to really contemplate our mortality but rather as a way of thinking about who we were and what we’d like to accomplish. It was one of my favorite assignments, besides designing a flag that represented ourselves, and something I’ve been meaning to update for a long time.

Last summer, or rather the winter of ’06 I set a list of goals that I wanted to accomplish in case I died the following year. It served as a great motivator to go out and live life how I wanted to live. I based those motivations on life experiences I would want to reflect if I were infirmed and in the hospital. One of them was to relive my high school prom as I envisioned. To throw wild and ridiculous parties, not just because I could but to serve as events where I could bond and share with my friends as I reflected. Another goal was the pursuit of love, in as many forms as possible; whether platonic, Socratic, fraternal, amorous, but most importantly unconditional. No matter who they were or where they had been, last year with everyone I met I tried to love them unconditionally, the only demand was that they were themselves or on the way to being comfortable with themselves.

I guess I was lying when I said it wasn’t to think about our mortality. Anytime one contemplates the goals one would like to do or things one would like to accomplish, you contemplate what happens after you are gone and forgotten. The monuments of Rome, pyramids of Giza, palaces of Europe, and the towering skyscrapers of today are nothing more than people wanting to be remembered after death. Writing, especially, serves as a form of memory and hoping to be one step above the animals, making a life count for something.

When I wrote my first obituary, it included winning a Pulitzer, Nobel Prize in Literature, an Academy Award and a Grammy. I also included a list of books I would like to publish, a list of homes I would own in France, Georgia, England and Virginia. However, on the first one I did lie in saying I would marry. A woman, that is. I wish I could find the original, but even still I know there are events I would change and different life goals I would add. I still would like to go for the Big 4, but I wouldn’t be remiss if they didn’t happen. Time to write out an obit for the future:

Columnist. Pulitzer. Nobel Prize in Literature. Academy Award (any will do). Husband. Two kids. Humanitarian work/fundraising for children, AIDS/HIV research. L’infant terible, bon vivant et garçon fatal. Last words : “It’s about damn time St. Michael. Tell me the secrets of the universe.”

Signed,

Patrique

Vanitas

Vanitas

I’ve met with death,
I’ve talked with him, or more he whispered
cold, precise words to me with
an icy breath that, of course, smelled; it reeked of death.
He leaned in close, the cold
slowly emanating from his chest
as though muscles and bones inside were no longer fresh.
Whispering in several tongues,
in many different ways,
the same message told since Abel met mortality.

A beautiful creature, if not a bit distant,
with outstretched wings in a somber daisy hue,
a truly angelic being, if we’re quoting Abraham.
Maybe just the brother of the man in charge, depending on whom you ask,
or something of the sort.
Once again leaning in to tell me, as he told Isaiah,
To eat and drink, tomorrow I may perish,
bringing about the entire Episcopal parish.

A whole realm devoted to this ghastly business,
the transporting of bodies down slippery streets,
as the river Lethe hangs overhead to ferry lost souls,
a drachma in each hand, or was it each eye?
While the recently departed soul traverses distance across the universe
transcending different levels of space and time
survivors are left with mementos,
as again He whispers “memento mori”

Regardless of ethereal or corporal resting places
An icy presence still follows in each step
wherever he goes
whenever he walks.
His presence is generally revered.
Except, by some individuals,
during a reckless period of youth prolonged
they defiantly scream in his face.
Making Achilles mistake in assuming invincibility.
Gracefully, He extends one hand,
and guides them towards the promised land.

I’ve met with death,
he talked to me and I listened accordingly
for what dreams might be,
before, during and after this life we lead

Sublime: Inter Ars Moriendi et Ars Vivendi

Dear Vanitas and Veritas,

I spent tonight painting. I’m calling the series An Exploration and Study of Color and Philosophy. So far, I have the most done on green, but then again I started that one over the summer. I need to finish that one. And the surreal-esque drawing I started transferring into paint. I also need to learn how to mix other colors besides green. I’m working on red right now. Orange I feel is the easiest, but then again I’m basing that off of theory. Either way, I’m excited about them. I think I’ll work on them the rest of the time before I leave, spend most of the trip taking in fashion trends, make some sketches and then come back to learn some stitches. On a completely different note, I’ve found kindred spirit in just the first thirty pages of Camus.

This post, though, was really brought to us by the word “Sublime.” Apparently I talk about it a lot, according to Cho. Yet, it is this powerful emotion that at best can be described as a direct connection to divinity or complete transcendence, experiencing multiple realms at once. The feeling I had when we first tried Hawaiian Baby Rosewood, where it felt I was standing on the infinite abyss at all times, aware of every sensation and experience. As I‘m thinking this through, it reminds me a lot of childhood.

More Between Heaven and Earth than Dreamt of in Your Philosophy

Dear Horatio,

As a break from novel writing, which is going quite well and I’ve the mental and creative faculty to devote to it, I took a break tonight to glance at the stars and dream. Not dream, in the subconscious processing sense, but to dare to dream; explore possibilities. Looking at the stars, and seeing the different constellations, I had the scary notion of what happened if people dared to dream. Not everyone was meant to dream infinite possibilities; it’s possible the world would collapse if we all spent our time dreaming. But if no one dared to dream, imagine a different possibility, then where would we be.

Tackling the eternal question

 

Dear Minerva

Tricky bitch, you are! You present me with a difficult decision here: life with love or life without it. I’ve tried the latter, and those around me said I lost the fire in my eyes. So, I opened myself up again. The only thing is I can’t decide which hurts more. Opening myself up for the possibility of love comes with the potential pay out of finding someone. However, that’s a very long, long road. And I’ve miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go. Oh, Minerva, some days I do declare.

 

Signed,

Patrique