I was a bit distracted this summer, so I may be forgiven for missing the news, but it turns out that one of my favorite authors, David Mitchell, wrote a book this year that I will never get to read, as he has buried it in Norway until the year 2114 as part of a project called the Future Library.
Something about this, both the denial of a piece of art from an artist that I love and whose voice is a big part of me, and the simultaneous optimism (there will be a civilization in a hundred years) and realistic doom (you will certainly not be there to see it), got to me more than I expected.
"I'm really upset," I said to Katie through the shower curtain as she washed the day off of her, before taking the doge downstairs for her evening walk.
But halfway down, I was suddenly so struck by the desire to make something beautiful, anything worthy to live on past the annihilating wave of time, struck by the shortness of my life, your life, any life at all, that I found myself sitting on the stairs, crying angry, embarrassing tears, while the dog panted patiently behind me, unsure why we were stopped, but sure I had a good reason, even if she didn't know it.
One year ago today: New York is Burning
Two years ago today: Just Missed It
Three years ago today: I Guess I Don't Either
Five years ago today: 11/2/11 She who is not busy eating 9-Lives is busy dying
Six years ago today: 11-2-10 Acting out (staying in)