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‘History isn’t something you need to bring to life. History already is alive. We are history. History isn’t politicians or kings and queens. History is everyone. It is everything. It’s that coffee. You could explain much of the whole history of capitalism and empire and slavery just by talking about coffee. The amount of blood and misery that has taken place for us to sit here and sip coffee out of paper cups is incredible.’
I pleaded with God, I asked and begged and bargained, but God did not bargain. God was stubborn and deaf and oblivious.
The longer you live, the more you realise that nothing is fixed. Everyone will become a refugee if they live long enough. Everyone would realise their nationality means little in the long run. Everyone would see their worldviews challenged and disproved. Everyone would realise that the thing that defines a human being is being a human.
‘Look at the darkness of the blood, Mr Noah.’ Mr Noah looked. The blood was blood colour.
Skyscrapers I Like The way That when you Tilt Poems On their side They Look like Miniature Cities From A long way Away. Skyscrapers Made out Of Words.
In 1980, while on a job in São Paulo, I would watch the news of John Lennon’s assassination on a small colour television screen. The footage was of that same building, where Lennon was shot. I wondered if the building itself had a curse, affecting all who passed through its doors.
It seemed, in the 1930s, that the whole course of humanity was at stake. As it very often does today. Too many people wanted to find an easy answer to complicated questions. It was a dangerous time to be human. To feel or to think or to care.
The lesson of history is that ignorance and superstition are things that can rise up, inside almost anyone, at any moment. And what starts as a doubt in a mind can swiftly become an act in the world.
‘Anxiety,’ Kierkegaard wrote, in the middle of the nineteenth century, ‘is the dizziness of freedom.’
‘So, you really had a crush on me?’ She laughs again. ‘You really sound immature, for a four-hundred-year-old.’ ‘Ahem, four-hundred-and-thirty-nine-year-old.’ ‘Sorry, a four-hundred-and-thirty-nine-year-old.’ ‘Asking that question made you sound five.’ ‘I feel five. Normally I feel my age but right now I feel five.’
‘Okay. Okay. Have. Have. I have a crush on you.’ ‘Me too. On you, I mean. I find you fascinating.’ I am being totally sincere, but she laughs. ‘Fascinating? I’m sorry.’
Her laughter fades. I want to kiss her. I don’t know how to make that happen. I have been single for four centuries and have absolutely no idea of the etiquette. But I feel light, happy. Actually, I would be fine with this. This ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ moment. With a kiss forever a possibility. With her looking at me and me looking at her.
And, just as it only takes a moment to die, it only takes a moment to live. You just close your eyes and let every futile fear slip away. And then, in this new state, free from fear, you ask yourself: who am I? If I could live without doubt what would I do? If I could be kind without the fear of being fucked over? If I could love without fear of being hurt? If I could taste the sweetness of today without thinking of how I will miss that taste tomorrow? If I could not fear the passing of time and the people it will steal? Yes. What would I do? Who would I care for? What battle would I fight?
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‘Everything is going to be all right. Or, if not, everything is going to be, so let’s not worry.’

