Living and dying.

All living and dying things like these dogs and me coming and going without any duration or self substance, O God, and therefore we can't possibly exist. How strange, how worthy, how good for us! What a horror it would have been if the world was real, because if the world was real, it would be immortal."

-- Jack Kerouac, "The Dharma Bums"

It's Saturday night and we've just come home from the Bugsplat Film Club showing of a West African/German collaboration Anansi. It was a beautiful film and very delicate but everyone there was a bit flat. A few days ago there was an accident involving a motorbike and a four wheel drive and a dirt road. Two Bugsplat boys died. The funeral was today.

There was a funeral scene in Anansi. Over tea, it was widely remarked that the Africans do death so much better than we do. There was dancing and singing, in Ghana, but there was only a stranger priest here. Imitating ritual.

It was a sad day for Bugsplat. Gray and I were edgy and anxious all day. I cut my finger while I was scissoring up mint. Gray cut his finger after dropping a jar of zuchinni relish. We have matching band aids and matching glum faces.