Endnotes on 2021: Accidents and Beyond

Introduction

I’m writing this sitting in my new apartment, this small living room I bought in which I’ve spent a few weeks of uninterrupted time - a trivial amount of time for many. But the most enjoyable time I’ve spent in an apartment for the last 23 years of this helter-skelter life. It rains outside, but many other parts have done less well and suffered much more.

I think 2021 had me thinking about how I should reevaluate my life decisions for the years to come. And although this looks contradictory, I’ve lost my will to keep on writing or question things because there were so many changing realities around the year itself.

I haven’t updated ffolk.cc in a while, and I did not work in the zakk.haus project at all. I’ve had many ideas around it and on how I want to create a better, fair and structured platform for artists to be able to share and have a stable life based on their unique works. Zilliqa and the web3 world are such interesting paths I want to follow on this, and they may be the door openers for all these ideas. I will expand on that in a different post or section of this one.

The World Keeps on Fucking Turning

Those who know me know I have always dreamed of having a motorcycle, and I had one. A beautiful 2017 Honda CB500 model. Its purpose was to ride endless adventures, to experience the sun and the staggering sweat under those armoured coats. The noise, the wind, the intrinsic fear and being on the watch for the adrenaline rushes swerving through twisties. Earlier this year, on the 12th of January, a distracted driver did not see me and hit me right on the left femur. TLDR: exposed femur fracture, flew 14 meters and after a year the recovery is still an ongoing process.

I used to drive like a madman, you know. Not in a wish-to-die way, but the consistency of those rides and the forced gaps during the day just to ride that peculiar machine. And I used to make fun of how one day I’d hit the wall and that was what it had to be. Shit happens. Life happens. Time goes so quickly, so what? There’s no control in it. So I asked them why not seize it?

“There’s an intrinsic fear of dying or having abnormal pain, obviously. It exists in every action and reaction in life, don’t fuck with me! The world keeps on fucking turning.” I’d say.

Well, I was one of the lucky ones. Most fall and that’s it. It is a sad world we live in if you start to play around with motorcycles and ride the danger.

I couldn’t feel a damn thing. I couldn’t express myself about it. I had been hit, and I was all tied up on the ground not knowing what was happening. So I decided not to panic. So I grabbed my phone to call my father. Then, I grab the lady’s hands and tell her that shit happens and that life happens, and that everything will be alright soon. Indeed, everything is alright now, and we are both fine in the end.

Fast-forward to the next morning and there was a late big ass nail inside my femur. Fast-forward, and I am walking again, my cat was dying at the time, my mother was sick, my bike is now gone and torn to pieces and I still can’t sleep properly. But at that moment, I realized I have a good life. I have a heart, a long aching one, you see. But most importantly, the world keeps on fucking turning.

My Best Friend

I have taken some time now to reflect upon the death of my best friend. It took me a while to revisit this emotional process and I believe I have yet to achieve what might be the perfect emotional outcome. Most of my friends, as per the look in their eyes, do not understand that although my best friend was indeed a silly cat, he was one of the most significant parts of my life.

A few days after I had the motorcycle accident, we found out my cat (the fat elderly one) had advanced cancer in his stomach. I have dealt with close family deaths in the past, but I was shocked by this news. I mean, it all happened so fast, the accident, the cat being sick, the idea of losing him and not really understanding why it was being detected so late. I have grieved as a young child and as a young teenager, but never as an adult. And what’s funny here is that I soon forgot about the whole recovery process and this was all I could think about.

Three months in, I wrote him the following:

Dear friend,

You’re close to dying, and I’m very sorry to let you know that I won’t be following you soon. There’s a sad aspect of our lives being different, as your age is bounded with a growing factor over the years. I don’t believe in mysteries either fairy tales, but I believe you took a leap of faith in my survival once again, as I could have died out there, but instead it’s you who is getting ready to fall. Which is quite interesting with all your weariness and innocence during the span of your life. I know everything about you, I really do.

And although we haven’t parted ways yet, I’m afraid I might have to let you know I already miss you. You’re standing there, at this very moment having no clue about what the fuck I’m writing about. Or even doing, you don’t really know very much about this world besides sleeping and eating, haha. But you’re a great listener, you see. I remember at the peak of my youth having you listening to my cries and whereabouts on life for hours. You knew how to deal with my secret emotional hypersensitivity, and you kept it secret for years too. You fought by my side against the manly stereotype I have always struggled with. Funny how some things never change.

I’ve noticed you just turned yourself around, and I notice how hard it is for you to breathe as the days go by. Your weight loss. Your weakness. Cancer sucks the life out of you, just like it did to our grandfather. Well, there’s nothing else we can do about it now. So I promise you I’ll give you the best palliative care for you to die peacefully.

Perhaps we’ll meet again. I hope not to find you soon, but one day instead. And I’ll tell you about my rock-the-boat lifestyle cruising down twisties playing Warren Zevon and challenging life.

And I know you’ll fight the reaper for as long as you can. Beat those fucking odds you silly cat.

Unfaithfully yours,

João

And that’s it to be honest. I can’t seem to write down whatever the fuck I feel. I might drink and raise a glass for him occasionally. He lasted for another 6 months. Peacefully passed away on the 28th of July.

You will be missed, dear friend.

Back on Track

Bukowski once said he would never recommend any deliberate method of creating art, and I agree with him. The truth is, all these backward-looking events since January led to enjoyable moments - mostly dinners and night outs - with friends I once sought to reconnect with, or at least catch up with. I’ve found myself drunk to sleep many nights, glad I kept my precious meaningless life. You see, backing up this idea of having methods to create art, some will drink themselves to death and so on, but I believe the most important thing is to enjoy the company of others. I came to the conclusion I don’t write when I’m not alone, but I don’t need to when I am. Reflecting upon this madness, I lost the will to do so, I developed a certain grudge towards it, and most of my bittersweet interactions have been really hard to acquit. I’ve been rewriting stuff, I can’t produce anything, let it be creative, academic or professional. I’m having what some may call a crisis of faith. I keep my most significant reason for this art to happen deep inside my heart in a very special place, I guess. A place I should not visit and Tom Waits’ Closing Time is a great substitute.

The House and The Absurd

I bought a house, and I spend many nights alone there.
When the furniture arrives, I assemble it.
In between screws, I drink beer sometimes and wait for things to get better.
I wait for the phone to ring, but it never does.
I smoke in between hours, sometimes I smoke in between minutes.
I listen very carefully to this hallucination of my old silly cat meowing.
I miss him. A lot.
I put on a jacket, and I go outside for a walk.
The phone keeps silently waiting to ring.
I still miss my cat, and all the people I haven’t seen for a while.
In my head no one misses me, and as far as I’m concerned no one gives a fuck.
I grab the Red Label, pour another glass and go outside again.
I smoke my friends down to the filter, and realize things won’t get better.
I go back inside and the clock ticks 4 am and I should probably sleep for a few hours before work.
In the background, Na Baixa do Sapateiro is playing on low volume,
and I recall getting introduced to this song
in an astonishing text written by a dear friend of mine.
I recall such moments fondly,
because the last sad memory will hover round,
will keep on drifting across like floating mist,
will keep on cutting off sunshine
and will keep on chilling the remembrance of happier times.
There have been joys too great to be described with words,
and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell.
Lass will be there, friends will stay there.
The walls of this house will stay strong for years,
and beer is all there is.

And I will pretend to be happy. Happiness is amazing. It’s so amazing it doesn’t matter if it’s yours or not.

It is just a matter of facing this fundamental contradiction and maintaining constant awareness of it. As Albert Camus suggests, facing the absurd does not entail suicide, but, on the other hand, allows us to live life to its fullest. If Sisyphus must struggle for eternity without hope of success, then there’s probably nothing else in life but this absurd bluebird.

“Still, the last sad memory hovers round, and sometimes drifts across like floating mist, cutting off sunshine and chilling the remembrance of happier times. There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.” — Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps

João, 2021