Secret Pop

Nov 17, 2003


I was watching the end part of a documentary about Andy Warhol the other day, having just come in from the grocery store. And I remember there being a part where someone said, of the fact that Andy used to carry a tape recorder with him everywhere apparently, that people who record things are, in their own way, trying to cheat death. As long as this is not forgotten. As long as someone knows this happened. That sort of thing. Creation of a legacy just in case the rest of the world can't be troubled to assign you one.

Maybe I subscribe to this more than I would want to admit. The scrambling to do something meaningful. The eagerly seeking out experiences and circumstances that create magic and memories. Because I believe I am a product of the mark I leave rather than the other way round. I am only what others believe me to be. So it is ever so important to give them reason to believe I am wonderful. Or at least unusual. It's all well and good to be happy with yourself and to have no need of others. But in the end, there's really a lot to be said for the reward of love and appreciation. Admiration. Affection. It's like being told that you are worth these things. I don't think everyone in the United Kingdom is necessarily less for not having been knighted, but those upon whose shoulders that sword has rested must have that one extra reason to smile. It's nice to be told you're good. It's nice not needing to be told. But it's nice to be told just the same.

I fear I would manage to miss the knighting altogether and find a way to get stabbed by the sword or to fall on it. Credit to the realm or no.

Incidentally, it was unendingly beautiful today. The perfect sort of weather for me. Sunny out but crisp and chilly. Jacket weather, if you require. It was cool and smelled of last night's fireplaces. It's my favorite thing. I breathed deeply with fists thrust into coat pockets and tried to make the sense of it last longer than was possible.

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