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BIRDMAN. A FILM WE HAD BOTH WANTED TO SEE. 
AND ON SATURDAY 14 FEBRUARY 2015
WE DiD.

Having watched the film, I remember the words of Raymond Carver appearing first on the screen. In blood-ink red, it reads,

AND DID YOU GET WHAT YOU WANTED FROM THIS LIFE, EVEN SO?

I DiD.

AND WHAT DID YOU WANT?

TO CALL MYSELF BELOVED, TO FEEL MYSELF BELOVED ON THE EARTH.

The question: “And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so?” seems like one you might ask someone once they’ve lived most of their adult life. Or perhaps, it is the question that death asks us when it comes knocking on our door. Upon seeing these words, I felt somewhat compelled to rephrase Carver’s question: And are you getting what you want from this life, now? Perhaps because I felt this was a question that I ought to ask myself in that precise moment. Or maybe it’s that one question we should always be asking ourselves. But for someone who had got into the habit of practicing avoidance, I thought I’d wait until the film had finished and ask you instead.

After the film had ended, I looked at you, ready with my question. But I hesitated. I began to see how deep in thought you were. Your eyes appeared pensive and serious; and with that a long silence filled the room. The sister in me disliked it; the voice inside me insisted that I ask you the question. But the friend in me cherished the quietness between us. It was a comfortable silence, and a ‘safe’ one, a space where we could just ‘be’. And on that evening, I understood that all you really wanted and perhaps needed more so, was peace. No questions. No answers. No judgement.

I WANTED TO ASK YOU: ‘AND ARE YOU GETTING WHAT YOU WANT FROM THIS LIFE, NOW?’

 I DiDN’T.

Your death in 2016 brought a pain so unbearable that a sense of powerlessness gripped my soul. Grief, an unwanted guest, had come knocking loudly at my door; persisting that I embrace what fate had kept in store. The brother I had, I now had to accept was no more. The world I once knew, I had to learn to let it go. The loneliness was palpable – so much so that I mistook it for a friend. Music became a companion to my loneliness; I was desperately holding onto lyrics that expressed my pain better than anything or anyone else could. The words of Anderson Paak: “Couldn’t fake it if I wanted to, I had to wake up just to make it through” – always repeating…

Sometime in late 2017, I watched Birdman again. I saw the words of Raymond Carver appear on the screen in blood-ink red as before:

AND DID YOU GET WHAT YOU WANTED FROM THIS LIFE, EVEN SO?

Again, I was reminded of my own question:

AND ARE YOU GETTING WHAT YOU WANT FROM THIS LIFE, NOW?

I thought of you, of course. And I wondered what you might have been getting from this life should you have lived well beyond the age of 40. Then, I thought about myself. Unlike before, where I had been reluctant to answer my own question, I was ready now:

AND ARE YOU GETTING WHAT YOU WANT FROM THIS LIFE, NOW?

NO.

What I wanted from this life was to write. It sounds so easy; after all, if you want to write, by simple definition, you simply write. And yet, ever since you went away, I had stopped writing. It’s not like I didn’t try; but every time I tried to put pen to paper, I only had tears – never any words. Trying to write only served as a painful reminder that you and I would never again share quotes and passages from the books we both enjoyed reading – never again would we visit a bookshop together – never again would you suggest a book that you knew would be good for both me and my soul – never again would we impart words of wisdom to one another –  never again would I see you so immersed in a book that you forgot about the outside world – never again would I read your writing – never again would you read my writing. Just knowing this, it became easier to simply not write. Perhaps that is why the lyrics “Couldn’t fake it if I wanted to, I had to wake up just to make it through” had resonated deeply with me. For a while I had convinced myself that so long as I woke up each morning, and got through the day, that was enough. But the truth is, by not writing I was simply giving my own spirit permission to die. That’s no way to live, I know. I also knew that I needed to write again. I wanted to write again; and so, here I am in 2018 – writing to you. Wherever you are, just maybe, my words will make their way to you…

One more thing.

Sometimes at night, when I see the moon, I imagine that you’re right there beside it. And on occasion, I find myself asking you:

AND DID YOU GET WHAT YOU WANTED FROM THIS LIFE, EVEN SO?

THERE’S NO REPLY.