Friday, February 06, 2009

The Day of Origin post

24 years doesn't feel like much time, though it should. I guess the persnickety old fool was right, youth *is* wasted on the young, to a certain extent, though in all honesty I doubt I could've spent all these years any better than I did.

The concern remains of course, for the years ahead.

I maintain that I've been blessed in terms of visions, as well as wisdom out of the mouths of friends and occasionally the radio: everything, including spam from [Yes, I signed up for a free offer. Yes, I know you did as well] has pointed to making life choices-- remembering what's important, remembering what I set out to do, and realizing now is the time for all those plans and dreams to come together.

Overall feeling of the day? Gratitude.

My ideal birthday soiree [once the book comes out and there are funds generated for such] would be a big band swing orchestra, a ballroom, champagne and good whiskey, and everyone dressed up like it's the 1920s. Everything will be beautiful and bright. Old friends and enemies would laugh at and with each other. Our grandparents would all be alive and present, as would our children. Someone would sing "At Last", and I think I know who. We'd pick flowers from all the center-pieces and cluster-bomb each other. And at 12, we all lose our footwear and run down to sands and the sea [of course this would be a tropical place, you kiddin' me?] and laugh around fires, under stars, passing around bottles and stories.
It will be perfect.

For tonight, I'll be happy with some Cao Ila, and Sinatra singing the songs he does best. Soft lighting, watching through the window as the town here struggles with and then sleeps, exhausted and deep, under the blanketing snow.

A final thought: midst visions of the goddess and the best advice I have ever received in my life, the past few days also gave me words that have finally laid to rest every lingering doubt I've had about my mish-mashed, ad hoc, msafiri/sub-altern/post-colonial/post-its/post-modern/post-box identity. Hail Jarmusch, you and your kind.