what to do to be remembered? is it vanity? or a deadly sin?
As I write I am looking out onto the beautiful lake at Maria Worth, a perfect place to have an empty tummy full of epsom salts and to empty my brain too. A place of ancient pilgrimage, a place of churches and a place of mystical holiness. When I was eleven I tried to get skinny on this bitter tasting granual, only to collapse on the floor unable to move. It is the same today. They, however, have the ability to make me think what is life all about? I suppose it is like a yearly penance I like to do—to remove my sins—in the medical wing of this beautiful place. Viva Mayr. It is almost church-like, people walk around in ghostly gowns. You feel holy in this self-imposed restriction of deliciously wicked, earthly food. I understand the Muslims during Ramadan and the Jews, Yom Kippur, putting themselves through starvation and why we Christians are meant to be good during Lent, your soul feels lifted to another power.
I wonder what life is about continually, and why are we here? As friends and acquaintances are naturally being laid to rest. Starvation is a quick way to make you think.
Is life about high heels, the Oscar winning dress I am in agony for? The accolades that others will win, or the poster I am about to have on Sunset Boulevard? It seems that the only reason to do anything is to be remembered, which is unlikely, given that most people are forgotten fifteen minutes after their funeral or memorial.
Your funeral will have the flowers, the beautiful flowers saying Mother, a well put together service and then the ashes which inevitably go up in the air, poof, and we are, oh God, forgotten. We become faded photographs in the bottom drawer of some inquisitive grandchild or niece. That is unless we have written something memorable, words do it, or notes that lead to magical memories. Mozart had the recipe as did Bach.
As the charity balls start, the parties in aid of everything from children in Syria to Marie Curie? Our social conscience makes us think about others if we have any humanity. What we want is a wing of a museum, a library, a schoolroom in Nigeria, anything that halts the ultimate realization that we shall be forgotten when we croak. Even those who are very high profile who go from daytime television to infinity. Their winning tricks get them to the right hand side of God, by marrying someone who speaks a saintly 65 languages, and looks good on the covers of Vogue, and does good works helping the return of all Queen Victoria's thefts. They think this will do it? In some cases it takes just fucking the president and getting murdered to be remembered.
I asked a composer once what drove him to write, he said, "To be remembered." I, of course, like everybody else want to be remembered. It is how to do it elegantly. Last week in New York, as a friend of mine was surrounded by fans waiting for his signature at a play he had not written, I realized, as I was treated like the wife, that wives generally are not thought about, and hardly ever remembered. No, this is not for me. This is the very reason I got divorced, the feeling of being 'just a wife' is not for me. I shall write and hope that it is worthwhile and helpful. Or perhaps forget this vanity altogether, as afterall it is a deadly sin and pretty meaningless, or is it? To become selfless is becoming interesting.
So the reason I come to the middle of Europe, to this exceptional lake, to starve and to think. From peace and time I am able to write, something meaningful, by cleansing my filthy body of excess fun, and spin dry it into creative action.