Never again, after today, will we be given the opportunity to experience, live and in-person, July 31, 2024. Photographs, videos, audio recordings, and written records are among the many ways we can try to capture and re-live this moment in time; but to actually undergo the experience of today—as it takes place—is a one-time-only possibility. After today, that opportunity will be gone forever. That is true, as well, for every second, minute, and hour. Every moment is unique and fleeting, yet we tend to treat those sui generis occasions as if they are common commodities. Of course, it’s not just the moment that is unique—it is the context of the moment, the milieu. Is it today that is unique or is it what happens today that is unique? Today is just a label, but the label applies to both the moment and to its context. But, then again, maybe not. Simple questions rarely have simple answers.
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Creativity, when mixed with anxiety, often morphs into emptiness. All of the intricate patterns and complex designs vacate the vessels intended to hold them, leaving only traces of powder that is one thousand times finer than the finest chalk dust. Those traces later coalesce around shattered pieces of distorted memories; like sugar, dissolved in water, that forms crystals that cling to lengths of string. But, unlike sugar, reconstituted creativity is not sweet and crystalline. It is sour. It curdles, congealing like milk left in an open jar under a lemon tree.
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Everyone will die, eventually. What difference does it make if it happens all at once or slowly, over a long period of time? Well, instant extinction would save a lot of unnecessary tears, so that’s an argument for the fast track.
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Apparently, I have been in better places, emotionally, than I am in at the moment. It could be the fact that the top of my head feels like sandpaper. I should have shaved my scalp, rather than had my hair trimmed extremely close with electric clippers—I imagined my head shiny and as smooth as a bowling ball. Curdled milk, I tell you.
