friday the thirteenth two thousand and two

I am 25. If I don't live to a hundred, more than a quarter of my life has passed. I have morphed from a brat who loved sitting in an armchair after dinner reading storybooks; to an awkward teenager who adored the beatles, read up about 'hippies', and was an encyclopedia of oldies; to a human clown with a secret, floating on a cloud, pierced intermittently by acid rain, faithfully drinking liquid chlorophyll every morning before a fruit blend. Gee, maybe soon it will be time for a voyage to the moon. Did you know it wasn't real? The publicity, the facts, the people sitting in front of their TV screens believing in magic. This shows that magic doesn't quite take place like that because people in power are almost always bad; that real magic is not an old-time magician with his trickery props, his heavily-eye-lined red-lipped classic beauty and his jangly alibaba pants, slicing her in two, nor is it in smoky potions or elusive alchemy because we cannot touch what has passed for too long (though I can touch the sixties because it wasn't far too long ago), but real magic is in asking people if they want to come to the moon with you, warm thin thosai on a rainy day served by a waiter whose shirt has lost its button at the belly, holding the hand of someone you love and not thinking exhaustively about Other Things, a bird drinking nectar from magenta flowers after a drizzle, the clouds moving slowly across the sky. If you ask me what all these moments add up to, I don't quite know right now. But if you trust in the moment and let it be (whether you are being interrogated by your boss -who is boss?- or whether you cannot get up in the morning, anything that creates bile in your pink belly that once had nothing in it, nothing but breastmilk, now it is full of shit) you might find that everything is lighter, and you can breathe easier. And then some things don't matter so much anymore. And the things that matter, you work hard to keep and improve. Voltaire said, choose to be happy. I suppose the reply from the dark is yes, Yes. That was the word that took John to Yoko, or Yoko to John. (though now, he is in the sky and Lucy -Yoko- is down in new york city living in an apartment overlooking his mosaic memorial) I saw this written on the table of someone in office who sits near the pantry:

After the final no comes a yes. And on that yes the future of the world hangs.