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by Sven Triloqvist
One of my oldest friends in London always swore that he and I would never make 50. We were Explorers then. We managed to survive acid, Hawkwind, macrobiotics and Porches. Some didn't. But we're already 17 years ahead of Plan A. And working on Plan B - which is a mystery.
But we made it way beyond predictions, with a little bit of alcoholism on the way (not mine) and a couple of divorces.
Mortality is not especially on my mind, except that I was diagnosed recently with sorry ass disease. The dappled skin effect. Possibly temporary due to stress, or some other imbalance in my auto-immune system. Or possibly permanent. It doesn't matter. It's just another difficult client and I know how they go. The amount of physical abuse of those Explorer years deserves a far worse fate. So I was thinking: what is there still to do? Well, I guess the key for me is in ensuring that as many people as possible remember me as someone who made them happy in some way. Because, as we all agree, there is no afterlife. When you're gone, you're gone. Your kids will carry on your genetic `line', and to a certain extent your individualized culture, which forms part of the real afterlife that is in the memory of other people. Happiness is the subject that no-one dare broach. Imo, if you're not aware of happiness, then you're a numbskull. The key to happiness is, of course, accommodation. It's one of the most important feedback systems we experience. How do you find dignity in what you do and yet still aspire?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not dying, except in the Keynsian sense. But I do read the obits more than I use to. I guess, to see who I have outlived and why. But I am happy most of the time. Because I can still create. |
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Talkin' bout my generation | 105 comments (105 topical, 0 editorial, 0 hidden)
Talkin' bout my generation | 105 comments (105 topical, 0 editorial, 0 hidden)
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