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All events in life are actually accidents. Some events just simply happen much faster than the others. We tend to only think that an event is an accident when it happens so quickly that we cannot react properly to save ourselves from harm caused by the event. Sometimes they result in what we regard as a total failure to save ourselves: death. If only everything is neutral and death is not a bad thing, we will never recognise accidents as the special events of our lives.

I wonder about the moment when a mosquito turns from a wriggle to a flying mosquito, right at the moment when it breaks through the water’s surface tension with its almost fully developed wings to get ready to start to fly. Is the wriggle’s attitude towards that transformation in any way similar to our attitude towards death?

(Would it, like my father, smile, in the knowledge that it will soon be able to fly?)

Maybe I should write about butterflies instead. Not because the butterfly is more proper for this thought; just because it might be easier for us, mere mortals, to imagine being released out of a cocoon, being that much dependant on our body to perceive the world.

Georgia and Russia live together imperfect harmony. Side by side with South Ossetia, which has no passport of its own. Yet.

Ebony and Ivory thought war was obsolete. My piano keyboard was wrong.

I look forward to adding South Ossetia to my passport collection. In the meanwhile, I will be looking into exhibiting only the two passports – Georgian and Russian – on two giant plinths. The work will be called, simply, Georgia and Russia. What more can I say?

On second thought: the title will be Georgia, Russia and the Wrong Piano.

Around a week ago, my left index finger suddenly started to retrace a subtle scar on the flesh side of my left thumb.

I remember very clearly what happened. It was a hectic day and I was finishing up work just before having to run to catch a flight. I slit my thumb while cutting address labels. Bloody hell. Literally. I almost fainted – the wound was that deep.

It was 2004 and what surprised me is a re-realisation of the fact that scars, even when they heal, will always be part of your body, forever. Four years ago when it started to heal, my index finger started tracing this scar. Old habits die hard, and it can suddenly resurface. This one old habit resurfaced a few weeks ago when my index finger mindlessly decided to retrace the scar – a one-centimetre long very subtle yet very determined scar.

What surprised me even more is that even when I don’t have the story readily registered in the front rack of my mindmap, and that it had to be triggered by a reappearance, or rather a re-realisation, or a physical retracing of a scar, the memory is almost intact. Quite distant, but still, intact.

It’s still there. It’s telling me it will always be there until my body completely decays. If that’s only how long forever is.