On days I do not feel I can write, all I have to do is start. I’m drinking water from a porcelain tea mug. It is dainty and unlike what I would buy. I wonder whether Fred Calhoun has passed away or not, a former teacher who is in hospital, his last days, due to cancer. He was retired and a legend of a man and a hell of a teacher. He taught English and on Shakespeare’s birthday he would bake cheesecake for the entire class, and bring apple bubbly. I would like to take up this tradition in honour of him. I was debating visiting him in hospital, but decided it’s not something I ready for, to see death so close. No one close to me has died, yet. Knock on wood. It will of course happen, but let’s leave sometime for that.
My face is getting oily for the first time in my life. Am I going through some new second puberty? Hope not, though it would explain a lot. Maybe that’s what the whole world is going through, a new growth spurt. All the wars and oil spills merely gnarly pimples on our morphing visage. Humanity grows together, in waves of change. Nelson Mandela is dying. Who will be a peace maker of my generation? Who will lead the blind masses into an ever darker future, holding on the only reserve of light? Artists must rise. We have been to meek for too long. I feel that I’m part of a generation that can really instigate change, through words and actions. I feel so encouraged by my peers, my friends, who have strong opinions and a strong desire to voice them. Globally, the world is truly shifting, chaos is being brewed in every corner. There was always chaos, and there is rarely peace, but we need the chaos to have the peace. Much like my warring mind. Everything ties into everything else. Nothing stands alone.