Will I still be here in 2045, when I am 92 years old? Who will I be then? A long-gone whispered once-upon-a-time, a feeble almost-there shell that once was a man, or (if I’m blessed) a vital old fart full of the beans?
Will I dare speak truth to power? (And what is power? Power is an arrogant fool who thinks he knows better than the rest of us. The truth is he is still an awkward child hoping that no one notices, just like the rest of us.)
Will I understand when I am 92, or will I be even more naive than I am today?
Someone wrote an article about how awful life will be in 2065, and I thought, “Well, at least I won’t see all of that.” I only know this window from 1953 to a time in the future that is nearer than ’53 is. How can I possibly understand the All of It when I have only experienced this sliver? I only know what I have seen, and much of what I think I know is what others have told me about what I did not witness.
Language is a miraculous invention that helps us imagine what it was like many years before us and what will be after we’re gone.
I made a career crafting sounds and then crafting words — always words and sounds and finding music in the words and words in the music, such are poems and songs and essays and stories all the same, this right here and this right now — and because of the recordings the words and music are likely to survive me.
It’s all ashes to ashes to ashes and dust to dust, but in between the ashes and the ashes, and in between the dust and the dust, so much life happens. We blossom and flower and fade, and spring comes to bring another season of life.
I emerge from the vision and wonder where all these words came from and was it truth I saw or just another hallucination? And I still don’t know where I will be, or what I will be, or who I will be, in 2045, or if my sentience will still animate this body and in whatever condition. I hope and I pray that I will have made a difference, although if I really hope and pray that, I’d best get on with the making.
