Once upon a time in the long ago, I used to work in both the Commonwealth Bank Trading Bank building and the Commonwealth Bank Savings Bank building; both of which faced Martin Place. One of those is perhaps most famous as the "money box bank", and 48 Martin Place lingers on as a corporate whisper as the ABN of the Commonwealth Bank in general is 48 123 123 124 and not by coincidence.
The Trading Bank building now houses a stupid dress shop on the ground floor, but one of the things that will forever remain with me because I spent so many hours starting off into the distance at it, was the memento mori reminder of the inevitability of death and our mortality.
Everyone who was working at the bank when it opened in August 1916, is dead. Every Australian who was alive when the bank when opened in August 1916 except for 11 people, is dead. Even the Commonwealth Bank Trading Bank branch, by virtue of having closed, is dead. The old function of this particular bank as the central reserve bank, having been transferred to the Reserve Bank of Australia up the street, is dead. The building remains. The business is dead. The noiseless foot of time steals swiftly by.
The noiseless foot of Tune steals swiftly by
And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh.
- Juvenal, Satires c.127
In case I haven't laboured the point, in comparison to the march of time, a person's existence is a mere blink. Generations come and generations go but but the earth has been here long before us and will remain after we have gone. It will remain after everyone who remembers us has also gone.
Not only does nobody actually remember people from long ago but because humans literally can not remember anything at all if they were not here, then it is physically impossible to remember people from long ago. This also goes for all of the all the people yet to come, for they too will also soon be forgotten by those who come after them.
On a large cosmic scale, you and I, and here and now, and everyone you have ever known, are just mere blinks. Stars are born and then they die and form planets with orbit new stars, and then and those planets will change over time and be eventually burnt up as the elements themselves melt in the heat. Be warned. Every human is going to die; including you. And that's deeply disturbing.
What's also deeply disturbing is that not only are we all going to die but we all face the same fate as animals. Grimaldi Mietitore moves at about one mile an hour and will inevitably always collect. He honestly doesn't give a rip about what he's collecting either.
The good, the bad, the saints, the sinners, the pius, the wicked, charity workers, genocidal maniacs: they all share the same destiny. Grimaldi Mietitore, or to give him his unkinder name "The Grim Reaper", is a disinterested ghoul with a work list and a clipboard, who does not care for all of our activity and madness, as he gets paid either way. When he arrives to collect, then we all join the dead.
Not only that but there's a third deeply disturbing about this thing we call 'life'. It's random. Muah, Ha ha ha ha! Although we like to assume that there there is a clear cause-and-effect relationship between doing the right thing and being rewarded, that simply isn't true. Utter bastard knaves frequently win, while people who are excellent and lovely and good, very often lose.
Grimaldi Mietitore doesn't plays dice because dice are reasonably predicatable. Nope. He plays cards: Whist, Rook, Uno, Skip-Bo, Tarot, Pokemon, Magic - he's got loads. They're all in the same deck. Draw Four. The Fool. Blue Eyes White Dragon. 5 of Diamonds. He makes up all the rules too.
Races aren't always won by the quick. Battles are lost by the strong. Food doesn't necessarily come to the hungry. The wise are idiots. Wealth doesn't necessarily go to people who actually do the work. Favour and patronage don't go to the brilliant. Meritocracy is a lie. Time and Chance happens to them all. Grimaldi Mietitore chucks cards around like a mad thing. You might as well try to give up trying to control very much in life. Life is just way too unpredictable. If you think that you have somehow got it figured out, then you are a fool. You are setting yourself up for a fall. Life is smoke.
The funny thing about smoke is that although you can capture it in a jar you can not hold it in your hands. Life is smoke. It is weird, it is mysterious, it is sometimes awful and it is sometimes beautiful. But try and grab it, and it will slip right through your fingers. Sometimes it is like a fog, and if you have ever been in a properly thick fog you will know that it is impossible to see clearly sometimes. It is confusing. It is disorienting. It can not be controlled.
Now what?
Give up.
No, really.
Give up.
Hold things with an open hand because you really only have control over one thing and that's your attitude towards the present moment, and what you have might blow away in a moment.
Stop worrying.
Go and have a good conversation with a friend.
Stand in the morning with your arms outstretched and feel the Sun on your face.
Go and have good meal with people that you care about.
Life is smoke. It is sometimes dark. It sometimes has horrid gas in it and will sting and hurt. It will occasionally lead you into very very dark places.
Give up.
BUT.
Do not lose hope.
The last and final word is this: either this actually all is pointless and once the light turns out, that's it. Or, eventually everything that we do will be brought out into the open and judged according to its hidden intent, whether it’s good or evil. And that's deeply disturbing.
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