Another last year

I have a question for you.

If you found out today that you had one year exactly to live, what would you want to do with that year?

Make a list!

Bruce sent me this email the other morning, so I dropped what I was doing (work) and set about making my list. Within a half hour, I had a list that was over 60 items long. I sent it to him as an attachment and he emailed back straight away to say that we would print it out and try and execute as much of it as we could. Then the following year, he’ll write his list and we’ll set about tackling that as well.

The objective is to live each year as though it’s our last, a perspective I’ve been trying to get someone to adopt with me since I was old enough to recognise my own inertia. He thinks we can reasonably manage over half the list (I don’t think I’ll be foisting him onto some other woman in preparation for my impending death, for instance), and I think he’s right. We just need to be proactive about it.

We’ve certainly wasted no time in tackling number 20 (eat things I’m scared of eating because they will make me fat), and last night devoured a whole tub of Haagen-dazs between the two of us. I’m at work now, just back from a meeting that has me wondering if I should promote number 50 (quit my job) to the doable half of my list.

Actually, things could indeed work out in my favour one day, though for the time being it looks like I’ll be starting from the ground up all over again, re-establishing pretty much all my routines. I might as well have been handed a brand new position, since by the time I manage to extricate myself from current familiar responsibilities and immerse myself in strange new ones, I’ll hardly recognise the role.

Wish I could say more, but writing about internet-related work on the internet is like visiting your parents in a MUM, U SUCK t-shirt.

Hmm.

Sleep thoughts

I was recently invited to participate in a monthly work-related, my-specific-job-related meeting. I wasn’t told anything about it – just that it was the first of a never-ending series and something about blue sky ideas-sharing.

But I was tricked.

I showed up and was basically told that I had to do more work, and not even for me or my manager or my products. Just for the company; just because. Every week. That hardly seems fair.

But anyway, no point in ranting obscurely about it here, at work, on my desktop I’ve seen taken over no less than four times by IT, who surely have my IP address memorised by now. Big Brother needs to take a big leap off a big building, if you ask me.

Last night I woke up sometime in the early hours and figured it was nearly time to get up, so I might as well lie here and think about death. I’m not sure what it is about sleep that pares me down to my basest elements and robs me of all defences. Because it’s sleep I guess.

It’s a horrible thought though, isn’t it? That on a daily basis we face the very real possibility of an eternity of nothingness, of no self. Every moment! The rug and the entire universe just pulled out from under us. It takes my breath away sometimes.

By the end of that thought, I realised it wasn’t anywhere near seven, so I also began compiling a list of things I want to eat/do when I go back to Canada over Christmas:

1. Tim Horton’s coffee/donuts
2. Earl’s hot wings with blue cheese dip and celery
3. Cheese Wiz and pickles on toast (All crap, I know)
4. Breathe fresh air
5. Stare slack-jawed at trees
6. Say things like “cell phone” and “garbage can” and “to-may-toe” and “how’s it going?” and other things we don’t say here
7. Sit in the passenger’s seat of a car at least twice
8. Watch American television
9. Visit the John Fluvog store. And laugh at all the stupid shoes.
10. Make a reservation somewhere. And go there at that time. And eat something then.
11. Dry some clothes in a dryer.
12. Have a shower in a stand-up shower

I dunno, that’s as far as I got. I didn’t fall asleep. I went on to think of how effing strange it is, living here and loving Bruce (well, that’s not strange in itself, but certainly having had the opportunity to meet Bruce in the first place) and wanting things I’ve never wanted before, having things I never thought I’d have (like a Bulgarian cleaner named Sissy).

I don’t usually have time to reflect on things like this, like anything really, but when I do: hoo-boy! It boggles the mind.

If anyone can be bothered to think of some specifically North American-like things to do in North America, please feel free to add to my list. I might not have time to finish it myself and then I’ll be there and home again before I know it.

And darkness and decay and the paper towel dispenser held illimitable dominion over all

By October, the leaves on Bermondsey Street had been mashed into shiny yellow flakes like fish food on the glossy pavement. Then more leaves fell. It’s the end of November now, and the inexhaustible store of continually falling leaves is accompanied by rain and the white puff of your breath as you walk, which is how you know it’s actually winter.

On Friday, we went to see a play called Human Computer at the Battersea Arts Centre. It was happening simultaneous to and directly beneath The Masque of the Red Death – an interactive theatre production which allows patrons to explore the dark world of Poe dressed like complete assholes.

Shortly before our own not-so-conventional but much-less-fussy play was due to start, I went to see a steward about a toilet. She said, “Here, you’ll have to wear one of these and pretend you’re part of the performance,” and handed me a frightening mask that made me look vaguely like batman. Evidently the theatre's only toilet is located squarely within the production of The Masque of the Red Death.

Now a freakish looking cat, the stewardess said, “I’ll take you there, wait for you to come out and then walk you back. Don’t be scared. And don’t say anything.”

She typed in a code and we entered into a dark, smoke-filled Victorian Gothic nightmare. An organ played low, long notes and a bell tolled the hour as we moved cautiously past a stationary figure in a spooky mask and came upon a blue-painted swinging door that bore a white plaque reading:

TOILETS

The carefully construed storybook world of Poe hadn’t made it as far as the loo, which was just as well. The bell tolled one and I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, took a sneaky photo of my masked self and returned to my guide, who delivered me safely back to the land of the living.

I’m quite pleased that I got to have the Masque of the Red Death and Toilets experience for free. Human Computer was pretty good too.

Prior to this, I’d bought myself a pair of these cheeky things, which I probably would have slept in all weekend had Bruce allowed me to.

My second spontaneous but necessary purchase – a fitted red coat - took place only a few hours ago at Spitalfields Market, which, had I known it existed only a short bus ride from home, I would have insited we visit every Sunday for the last year. Which is probably why Bruce waited until now to take me there.

Afterwards, we had the best sausage and mash ever at a cozy, warm diner called S&M, though the only painful part of the experience was realising my plate was empty of sausage and mash. We’ve made a pact to eat there every Sunday, which means I’d better keep up my walks to work unless I want to actually become a sausage.

Back at the ranch, we spent an uncomfortable few hours watching Code Unknown. Were it not for Michael Haneke, I think I’d become far too complacent about life. It’s good to remember that fictional characters much like us suffer, because. Well, why not.