Disclaimer: I was in the midst of writing this post when I got the call for my transplant! Hence the lateness of the post. Also — stay tuned for another post to come!
In a world of absurdities the existential absurdity is most coherent.
– Norman Mailer
La bohème
Wanderer. Adventurer. Vagabond.
But… definitely NOT a hipster in the contemporary sense of the word.
In his essay “The White Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster“, Norman Mailer characterized hipsters as American existentialists, living a life surrounded by death—annihilated by atomic war or strangled by social conformity—and electing instead to “divorce [themselves] from society, to exist without roots, to set out on that uncharted journey into the rebellious imperatives of the self”. This was, of course written about youth and young adults in the 20s, 30s, and 40s but could equally be true about contemporary, post 9-11 young adults.
I say I am not a hipster because I have tried very hard to not divorce myself from society no matter how alone and scared I feel. I have put down roots with Nick on the West Coast, and we have both definitely set out on un an uncharted journey of rebellious imperatives to discover our best selves despite being surrounded by death and sickness.
It seems that time is on my mind these days. Obviously, I suppose. Since my last post I spoke about how in all probability I would not have lived another 6 months had it not been for my LVAD. Funny I guess that since it has been almost 7 months since Vlad was born, it seemed apropos to post about my imminent demise without him. So, with that lead-in, it should come as no surprise that I also celebrate (?) one year on the transplant list.
September 3rd marked one year.
What have I learned in the past year? Indeed, over the past decade, of being sick?
Your life is rented.
COMPANY
525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear.
525,600 minutes – how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes – how do you measure a year in the life?
How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love.
Seasons of love.SOLOIST 1
525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan.
525,600 minutes – how can you measure the life of a woman or man?SOLOIST 2
In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried.
In bridges he burned, or the way that she died.COMPANY
It’s time now to sing out, tho the story never ends let’s celebrate remember a year in the life of friends.
Remember the love!
Remember the love!
Remember the love!
Measure in love. Seasons of love! Seasons of love.
One Year. It’s been one year. I know I have said this before but so much has happened in the past year that it is almost impossible to believe that it is real. And it happened to me. It happened to US. But one thing I do know above all else – I could not have lived a better life.