The Ditch

Do I need to present here a list of all the dictators, psychopaths and mass murderers who were vegetarian?

People make all kinds of assumptions when it comes to names, especially when a name isn’t from around here, when they don’t have a clue about how to pronounce it, let alone spell it.

Human beings cobble together their own mythologies over time. I was unloved, I was too loved, I was popular, a loner, misunderstood, persecuted, stupid, a winner. We use the past to explain ourselves.

Happiness, I told myself back then, and still tell myself today- or perhaps one would would do better to speak of satisfaction, rather than happiness- is bound up closely with the acceptance of your own head. Your own body. Your build. There are plenty of things you can do about that body. You can lose weight when you think you're too fat, you can lift weights when you become embarrassed by the way your ribs stick out. But there's not much you can change about your head. The head has a mind of its own. It grows bald when it feels like it. It grows fatter, older, spottier, in a way you'd never thought possible. Visible to all, and not least of all to yourself. You can't hide your head by pulling a T-shirt or a sweater over it. It's there all the time, every hour of the day and night. It looks at you in the mirror. This is it, it says unblinkingly. You'll have to make do with this.

The new fascism puts on its friendliest smile, helps old people across the street and carries their heavy shopping bags up the stairs.

Which may be the greatest perk of getting older. I’m no longer afraid of missing something. I know that I won’t miss a thing.

I tried to stop my imagination at that point, but by then the image was more powerful than I was. I kept looking, I couldn’t take my eyes off it, the way you’ll watch open-heart surgery or an eye operation on TV, even though you know you shouldn’t, the remote in your hand, your thumb on the button, ready to zap away, but you wait too long: the shot of the sawed-open rib cage, the surgeon’s hands in their green plastic gloves holding the throbbing heart, the white eyeball hanging out of its socket, attached to the head by only a few bloody threads, will remain tattooed on your retinas for the rest of your life.

Mes dabar vis kalbame apie taršą, bet įsivaizduok, kad mes patys esame tarša. Ne tik mes- visa gyvybė. Aš esu pamėginęs taip įsivaizduoti. Mūsų Žemę be gyvybės. Be medžių, be žolės, be visiškai nieko. Tokių vietų esama Islandijoje. Arba prie Didžiojo Kanjono. Tai visiškai neliūdna, kaip tik nuostabu.