Dearest Rachel –
It seems apropos of absolutely nothing, but that’s pretty much how earworms work; like dreams, they aren’t required – or even expected – to make much sense. And yet, in some ways, it gives one something to think about, even if it’s only the obvious (and somewhat unanswerable, given the previous statement) question of “where did that come from, and why is it playing in my head now?” We used to play games like that with each other, much like you telling me about your dreams, and backtracking through our conversations to figure out how we got to where we ended up at certain points.
In any event, this is what was running through my head as I rolled out of bed shortly before six this morning.
I’ve heard this song often enough in my life that I can understand why it might happen – for all of the imponderable nature of earworms, one requisite behind their genesis is that they have been listened to enough to be easily brought to memory – but as far as its timing, it seems particularly out of sync (and that’s a completely different Steve Taylor song) with my life at this point. Of course, for all I know, that may actually be the point, assuming there is one.
The thing is, Desmond Underwood-Frederick (and to think, I could have sworn his surname was Frederick-Underwood. Guess that’s a case of the Mandela Effect) seems to have been the kind of guy who didn’t always drink beer, but when he did, he preferred Dos Equis; he made a play at being the Most Interesting Man in the World (or at least, the most interesting man whatever room he was in). In writing to you every day, I try to tell you something interesting about my life every day since you’ve been gone; it’s not the same thing by any means, but I’d like to think it has its moments. Besides, there are moments I’d like to remember about my life both before and after you, and the best way to do so is to get what I can written down (or on video – there’s nothing like having proof on film, after all).
But all those interesting things about his life are about to add up to absolutely nothing – at least, as far as he’s concerned, since he’s been informed that his time is just about up. All those plans to do so many more interesting things? He’ll either have to hurry up and do them, or write off the possibility altogether, because he just doesn’t have that kind of time anymore. What good are all those memories, if the brain holding them is about to be shut down? And what comes next for him? That last question is the one that appears to concern him the most.
Which, of course, is the first and foremost among the many ways we differ. Not only do I not have Desi-Ray’s C.V. – nor am I necessarily out to build mine up to such an extent – I accept that none of what’s on it is all that important, especially when compared to the future that is waiting for me (and which you’re already enjoying). This world can burn to a cinder – and it will, if only when the sun itself is in it’s dying throes some day – but I have been promised an eternity that exceeds that of any celestial body in this physical universe. So I’m not worried about those sorts of things; indeed, I’m rather looking forward to that day.
With that having been said, it does seem like my actions bely those sentiments. For all that I’m ready to leave, here I am heading off to the gym again (less than fifteen hours since having been there yesterday afternoon, even!) to keep my body in what might be the best shape it’s been in twenty years. Among the many markers Lars had me tested for, one stood out to him in the form of my hemoglobin count. Apparently, the A1C ratio is supposed to be between 4.0 and 5.6 percent; the last time that was measured (a year before the lockdowns), I registered a 5.8% reading, which might have suggested a tendency toward diabetes. As of two weeks ago, however, that ratio was down to 4.9%, showing that the things I’ve put myself through over the last couple of years have allowed me to back away from the precipice. So unlike Master Underwood-Frederick, I seem to be in much better shape to not have to be whistling “Happy Trails” any time soon – barring, of course, any accidents or what have you.
I do, of course, continue to wonder why I’m bothering to do this, though. It would be one thing if I was continuing my happy life with you; who wouldn’t want to make that last as long as possible? As it is, though, I can’t help but puzzle out a good reason for deferring the inevitable like I am, especially given that ‘Megumi’s own existence is getting more questionable by the day. Not that I’d make some kind of headlong rush for the exists; it would just be so much easier to follow the path of least resistance, and let nature take its course. And yet here I am, staving off that impending moment for what looks to be a good long time into the foreseeable future.
Yeah, these are the sorts of things that rattle around in my head as I ponder the purpose of this morning’s earworm. Not the happiest collection of thoughts, to be sure, but at least I don’t have to agonize over the sorts of things that the likes of Desmond Raymond Galahad Underwood-Frederick IV had to (and yes, I’m using the past tense to describe him. This song came out in 1994, you’ll recall; could he possibly still be around thirty years since that diagnosis?)
Anyway, I should get on with my day, honey. Be sure to keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 