"We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started and
know the place for the first
time."
... Thomas Stearns "TS" Eliot, Four Quartets #4: Little
Gidding, circa 1942
I am indebted to Kimile "Kimi" Pendleton and to
Jermaine La Jaune Jackson
and to Joanne Kathleen "JK"
Rowling who inspired this conversation.
A
friend of mine
delivered a
heartfelt
eulogy before a group of
family
and
friends,
for a
woman
who
diedway
too soon, someone I
lovedpassionately,
praising
her, extolling her dynamism and her energy, lauding her life and her
vast,
far-reaching
self-made
empire. I wasn't there. I was in another
state
over a
thousand
miles away at the
time.
But I'd scheduled an occasion to be there with them in
spirit.
And I was. At the
exact moment,
I
stopped
doing what I was doing, and I was there. The gist of her eulogy was
relayed to me later. One of the things she
shared
with that group was "She's
loved
by the" (quote unquote)
"famouswriter,
Laurence Platt.".
I was deeply touched that she
shared
our
relationship
with that company (it
moved me to tears
actually). I did
love
her. No, it's more than that: it's I was crazy about her.
I still am. But
listen:
if you really
love
someone and they
die,
you can shift your
love
into a new
realm
(if you will) which, when done successfully, will reveal your
love
to be effortlessly intact, with no struggle to it
(truelove
transcends
death).
It wasn't until much, much later that the second
detail
of what she
said
hit me like a
boltout of the blue,
like a ton of
bricks,
a delayed reaction. "What? Really?" I
said
to myself when it replayed itself in
my mind
the
next
day, "Dude, you're
famous?".
Actually when
the truth
of it is told, I don't (want to)
think
of myself that
way.
But I'm
clear
someone else does. And
now,
she having
spoken
it before that group, it's how others
listen
it too.
OK.
So, taking my preening
egoby the hand,
I
walked
into my bathroom,
looked
at
my face
in the
mirror,
and
said
"Famouswriter,
eh?" to my
reflection,
then puffed out my cheeks as big as they'd go, poked out my tongue as
far as it would go, and blew myself a big, fat, loud,
spittle-slobbering
razzie.
Fame.
Be careful of what you aspire to.
Ask
anyone whose
fame
has cost them any and all semblances of privacy (that's a take-away
from
a remarkable
conversation
I had with
Jermaine Jackson, Michael's brother,
at their
familyhome):
fame
comes at a price - a steep price. And it's not always a
good deal or a great bargain. More often than not, it isn't. Indeed,
there may be
nothingworthwhile
about it at all. That
said,
there is one thing I
think
it just may be
worthbeingfamous
for.
In giving
consideration
to what it may be, there are, for example,
famouswriters
who are really more than just
famous,
indeed they're even more than veryfamous:
they're über-famous.
Their
fame
is gargantuan. They're the
writers
whose
works
bring forth fantastic alternate
worlds,
incredibleimaginative
scenarios, and lifestyles which are alluring, attractive, and coveted.
And it's not required that you live in an alternate
world
or change your current scenario or have a particular lifestyle, to
live in the
worlds
of their
creations.
All that's required of you is that you read what they
write.
That's the
magical,
catalyzing,
transportive
art
and
power
of their
writing.
It's gotta be attractive. And the job pays
very well: just
ask
JK. Yet her particular
mastered
genre of
creating,
as much as I respect and admire her
vastcreative
talents (not to mention her humble coffee-shop,
scrawling-on-paper-napkins
origins
- that's the part I
simplyadore) is not what calls me. I'm not
interested
in adding to and augmenting the extensive (and ever-expanding) catalog
of fantasies which are already on offer to us. I'm not
interested
in
creating
any alternate
worlds
for us.