Early in the morning, as I peaked on the dance floor of the main room, a dancer threw his glow stick in the air, and I watched it rise — in slow motion — and recalled the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey. This guy was like a caveman, and his glow stick was the fragmented piece of bone that the man-ape in Stanley Kubrick’s film flung into the sky that spun and transformed into a satellite in orbit.
And now, I can’t write that post here. The words were fluid in my head: a space where nascent ideas are brilliant, where then and now blend, and where everything makes sense. My shower creates a similar space: when I wash my hair, the running water and the mundane task at hand release the flow of thoughts. Yet when I sit and try to put these words down, I can’t slip back into that zone.
But hearing it again, knowing that we’re not invincible — that I’m no longer 20, and he is no longer here — was odd. It’s as if the song died with him.
A boundaryless world where I participated and created, lost in moments mostly undocumented.