There are regrets that many of us carry. One of mine is not being one of those people who instinctively knew what to do with their life. It's one thing to wish that you were Leonardo da Vinci or Derek Randall, in their prime. It's something else to track back and trace the strategic errors that you made along each lane of meandering career freeway.
Spending your time overrun by regret seems to be a waste of anyone's time. Is it as big a waste, professing to regret nothing? Perhaps. I must admit that those types of people always make me kind of suspicious. Maybe what they actually mean is that they're happy with their personal life and wouldn't want to jeopardise it in a spate of ill advised experiments in time travel.
It's tempting to draw a connection between talent and self-destruction, though. Last night, Bruce Weber's 'Let's get lost', the documentary on the magnificent, Chet Baker, was on television. I wanted so badly for Chet to talk about his inspirations; maybe recall a few funny episodes involving other jazz legends, etc. You understand what I'm getting at.
What the interviews with the 57 year old version of Baker actually gave us was the low-down on what makes a good 'speedball.' Not too much cocaine apparently. It gives the whole drug cocktail too much of a rush.
The only real state of perfection is probably our last. Chet reached it a short while after the film was made. If there's an afterlife then I wish him well.
O. and P. flew back to Vancouver today. 'sad to see them go, although if they hadn't then I guess they'd never be able to come back and visit.
It's ten hours flying non-stop, apparently. 'sure hope their arms don't get too tired.
