To have a life so well honed down
as a shark’s; where the merest whiff of blood
acts as a trigger to release one’s
non-thinking, totally instinctual,
predatory gifts. To be able to dismiss
thought; to get rid of one’s
psycho-babble, the white noise
of human species, and just exist. No Freud,
no Jung, no Melanie Klein; just
the pure line of a fin through salt.
To offload Shakespeare and unplug Bach; to have
never seen a Rembrandt, nor a Monet,
nor a Braque. To be one’s own work
of art, a one-man show, a performance piece, a word-
less monologue of cartilage and teeth.
With no beginning to be grateful
for, and no endings to fear.To be able just
to live; right now, right here.
(by some Gordon Meade)