Remembering me


We all want to be remembered after we're gone, I think that's a natural part of what we've become. We want to be missed, for people to notice that we used to be there, that we aren't any more and that it's a shame that we're gone. The trick is that very few people will be remembered in that way. Great people are, the Kennedys, people like Tommy Douglas and so forth. So very few, and its likely that neither you nor I will be one of them. Not even a generation will pass and we will be forgotten.

I think it's this desire that leads me to the beautifully impractical projects like the Phoenix, where I can feel that it is only through my brilliance and my sheer force of will that anything is accomplished, where I can feel like the pivot on which this small world turns. Of course that is never the case, and when I left the Phoenix, just as when I left the Canadian University Press or the Paramount Theatre or Ms. Geffeler's student council in high school, someone else stepped into my place and became the pivot and then it was their brilliance and sheer force of will that carried the day. I was important surely, but had I not been there someone would have and so in that regards I was unimportant.

I suppose that is one of the myriad of reasons that people have children, because if you raise someone for eighteen years chances are that they'll remember you.

Since I don't have children, I suppose I'm replaceable. At work I'm reminded of that every day as it transforms more and more into the sort of place where anyone can work, turning from a professional job into the McJob that I've held before.

We are Lego people, with only the colour of our pants and shirts to differentiate us. I suppose I should end this with something uplifting now, but I rather can't think of what to say.