Recently I’ve concluded that for one’s existence to matter, one should either be remembered in his time and onwards or should have done some good to his fellowmen. And I figured I’d settle for the latter (as if I had a choice) and thought of volunteering options. For a worthy enough cause, I might be able to actually help out and do something considerably signifcant and maybe it'd be a weighty enough experience for this life to be worth its time.

I thought about this when Doogie talked about her concept for the next XO? show. She was concerned about our awareness of daily local and global events through technology (tv-the inernet-print media) and yet we do virtually nothing about it except use them as interesting conversation topics or schaden fruede (happiness in the misfortune of others). It‘s because of the idea that yes, everything is happening and the world is falling apart (global warming-famine and poverty despite “development”- wars George Bush start-Republicans*hehe) but as long as we see it on tv or in our computer screens or read them in the papers, we are thus insulated from such terrible things. Therefore, the idea of one actually going to these places to help out is a bit of a sacrifice to say the least (unless one enjoys being close to danger), like putting oneself inside those television scenes where there’d be no use to yelling “help” to a bunch of people having dinner or eating popcorn, watching you and just watching. Well, anyway, I looked up on volunteer programs and discovered there fees are for them and I'd have to cover my own expenses for such and such so I figured I‘d do that once I get resources myself.

Meanwhile, reading Murakami has introduced me to the life of the drifter (or the fictional life of a fictional one). In “A Wild Sheep Chase” the main character receives these letters from his friend called “the rat” and by God, how I loved reading those letters, imagining how it must have felt to be so nakedly human. Traversing the earth without strings or heavy luggage, the idea of existing and only existing, and the confusion it plants within a self, the letters seem to come off directly from the sender’s mind, like listening to him think. Of course, I’d have to forget about remembrance or good will (maybe once or twice along way) but building your life like you’re leaving it for yourself and not for your children or their children is for me somewhat brave and very honest in a sense. Although it maybe thought of as utterly selfish but yeah, that’s how I think about it now. Or maybe I’m not thinking right, romanticizing things or maybe Mr. Murakami is just another lying poet. But there, right now, I want to be a drifter, maybe for a time, maybe for a fourth of my life, I don’t know. All I see now are those letters in those few pages that seemed to glow among the 300 or so others.

I want to taste the world like it was my lover, to tread the skin of the earth.