letters from c.

i have been extraordinarily lucky, having evaded, thus far, death and its many variants. life, as EM Forster wrote, is easy to chronicle but bewildering to practise. and yet, we are told, practise makes perfect. ever the ardent practitioner, c.


the debauchery of packing for an overseas move cannot be summed in a mere letter.  the weight of the task overwhelms me, even though this is not the first time.  every time, i have done it alone.  and every time, it’s heartbreaking.  getting rid of stuff is always a welcome proposition for a purist like me, but in reality it means deciding which memories to break physical contact with, which gifts to discard, which events or people in life have priority over the rest, which belongings it would kill me to part with.  all this contributes to heartlessness; i’m worried about a cardiac arrest tonight as i write this.  the heart stops, doesn’t it, when large chunks of it have been ripped out.  3 years working in a hospital taught me that much.  but this draconian shredding apart of accumulated life also contributes to fearlessness.  if i can tear apart my life i can reassemble it elsewhere.  take it all with me, in the still accessible corridors of memory.  move that feast, counseled hemingway.  for you will be starving one day again soon.

but heartless debauchery is an apt description for another reason, as i’m in the final days of triage before the charities come to cart off the furniture.  piles of documents, photos, maps, real letters from ages ago when handwriting was a scrutinizable component of personality, shoes, bottles of half-used product, clothing, cds, books, manuals, sheet music, a maelstrom of things thrown into piles of ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘maybe’, but looking admittedly as if a weak landmine had struck.  is it essential? lightweight? available halfway around the world?  these being the only 3 questions on the triage station clipboard hung over my tired conscience.

i never seem to move across town, or merely to another country anymore.  no, if it doesn’t involve crossing at least one ocean basin then i’m not interested. i consume countries for my apéritif; i step over continents in the course of my evening stroll.  my immigrant psyche has resigned itself to a life of constant assimilation in foreign lands.



20 years ago you asked me to keep in touch.

i have, in non-chronological order:

been to sea in 3 ocean basins, experiencing research, seasickness, and food poisoning; flown across switzerland in a cessna and seen its glaciers melting up close; provided lab support for one of the first lung transplant programs in north america and subsequently seen gloved surgeons’ hands cradling newly-harvested organs, pink with the potential of life a second time around; climbed smoking volcanoes in sicily; gotten a phd in oceanography (or as an old professor put it, ‘i didn’t get a phd in oceanography, i took it’); been battered by 8 hurricanes in 2 years; spent heartbroken weeks in a foreign icu waiting for someone to awaken from a coma; become a citizen of hong kong for the second time; swum after sharks and manta rays in cool blue belizean waters; gotten an mba; fallen in then out of love; written endless mathematical programming code for nasa; observed goats climbing trees in the sunshine of the atlas mountains; surprised a buddhist monk, en route from poland to la, who was about to take a vow of silence; settled revolutions in spain, flown around the world in a plane (no…hang on..that was gershwin); nearly fallen, laughing with joy, into the vastness of the grand canyon the first time i stood at its edge; observed the last dying days of a UN world heritage site by helicopter; accumulated a large house filled with stuff (including, regrettably, my second grand piano) then gave it all away; watched the sun move over the mallorcan hills from the balcony of the monastery where george sand and frederic chopin shared their last winter; waded against the relentless, medieval tides of faithful pilgrims in paris during the pope’s visit to notre dame; lived on an ancient road that still, as originally engineered, leads directly to rome; crossed under a zen arch, placed over a deserted path on a quiet island, that read ‘time does not exist/what is memory’ only to miss/forget it completely on the journey back; nearly been stranded in the argentinean alps, 2 kms from the chilean border, on the edge of an opaque emerald lake; idled my car while waiting for a single-file brood of newborn alligators as they hesitantly crossed the road.

i have been extraordinarily lucky, having evaded, thus far, death and its many variants.  life, as EM Forster wrote, is easy to chronicle but bewildering to practise.  and yet, we are told, practise makes perfect.

ever the ardent practitioner, c.

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