An Essay on Retrospect:

I must apologise, I have been on the blower to my mar mar for hours– and now my curfew is near and my thoughts are spent– Not in the purest sense of the term– They’re still lurking, my thoughts, but for time– I have none. It’s up. It’s time now. I must present. But what?

What do you want?

So few of you tell me.

And it’s nearly done now, this thing– It’s all but ripe.

My Year With Leonard Cohen has all but passed me by–

I say that in jest, of course.

None of it’s slipped by unknowingly, which was the whole point of this exercise, ne? To create a conscious path, however frigid, however troublesome, however hard– But now it’s not so hard– which was also the point. 38 sleeps shy of my deadline I’ve arrived, entirely– I’ve made a habit of things, which was all I ever wanted to achieve from this sweat, really. That was it.

Some folk often stipulate it takes but three weeks to create a habit. I disagree. While agreeing in part. The reformed smokers. The yogis. To addicts. Three weeks! That’s it.

I’ll tell you what you get out of three weeks. And then I’ll tell you something else.

In three weeks you create a pattern. A pattern that can then recognise and fully acknowledge guilt when broken. Shit. I have done a lot of something and now I’m not. I feel bad. It takes three weeks to get to that.

But a year.

Now a year is a curious increment of time.

A lot can unfurl in a year.

Think about it.

Think about your year.

Go on.

Grab a pen.

Jot it down.

Meditate on it.

What have I done?

And start with the do-ing not the other, cause that’s where shit turns sour.

Look at what you’ve DONE, what you’ve CREATED, what you’ve DELETED. What you’ve BUILT.

Not what you’ve fucked up. What you blew. What you squandered. What you lost. Or whom you buried.

Look at the building. Look at the skyline. Look at the landscape. And no one elses, just yours–

Look at it.

And when you’re done with that– which, by the way– you never should be– move on to this– which is brief as I’ve ten minutes to post this now and only one thought left to share before shower and bed–

What did you really want?

If I look back over my year and this blog, to date, and if I’m really, really honest, I think in part, I hardly knew what I wanted.

I said I did, I thought I did, but what has eventuated has actually far exceeded any of my expectations, you know, because they, my expectations were all so insular and complicated and egoistic– They weren’t pure, they weren’t lucid, they weren’t entirely organic.

They were largely, now that I come to reflect, projections of someone elses idea– A hunch built on a thousand years of family history and cultural grief– I say this out loud as I type so as to remind myself.

What did you really want?

What do you really have?

And does it really fucking matter what’s missing?


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