Death Becomes Her

I was watching September today, one of Woody Allen's more somber films. True to form it featured Dianne Wiest, and while watching I couldn't help but remark inwardly on how well she looked. I looked at the channel guide and noticed that the film was made in 1987. "1987 wasn't so long ago," I thought. Then I remembered that my little brother, who drives and has already graduated high school, who is bigger, stronger, and taller than me, who's almost 20, was born in 1987. 1987 was 20 years ago, jesus. I wondered what I'd look like in 20 years. Would I still be thin? Would my face be a roadway of lines and saggy depots? Would I even still be alive? I have these thoughts often and they don't amount to much. It's not like I resolve myself to drastically changing the course of my life after these little reveries, and that's sort of pathetic and pusillanimous.

See, I have this philosophy that life is short and you don't get another. That's pretty basic and prosaic, but I really, really believe that. I don't have faith in a God or gods who will take care of me and offer me rebirth; I don't believe in a heaven or hell or purgatory. When you die, you're dead--that's it. I'm an agnostic, would-be atheist; however, I have a friend who believes that branding oneself an atheist is too arrogant. It is like, she says, pretending to know all there is about the universe. I disagree, of course. It just means you're sure and refuse to be wishy-washy about your beliefs. Anyway, yeah. Knowing that I'll be dead soon, I should be doing a lot more than refusing to leave the house and refusing to speak to people and refusing to answer the phone, and other insular practices, but I just don't feel like it. Don't get me wrong, I'm not depressed. I just feel that maybe I should be out there shaking it up; you know, catching venereal diseases, racing stock cars and having abortions. Oh well.