I sit in my cubicle, here on the motherworld.

[kingtycoon]

It bothers me that I have to wear the birthday hat. The birthday sombrero indicates that you will die, sooner than you thought. It is the badge of the psychopomp. Charon, he sees you with the Mexican novelty hat and gustily drones, wind over his jawbone at Lachesis and she says - "He's worn the hat nearly enough times! Soon, he comes soon, I'll trim his thread and you'll find him on the riverbank, fingers still glistening with salsa." Or maybe it's my last time wearing the hat? Who is even to say. I guess, I don't know, I don't particularly like thinking about it - but you know, I'm really good at thinking about it.

I'll probably get some kind of brain disease from wearing the shared hat at my birthday. I have an appropriate fear of brain diseases - not a crippling anxiety, but a grim understanding that you could wake up one day and be a person who realizes that I have to cut off my arms and legs because they aren't supposed to be there. That's a fucking thing that could happen, dysphoria. No thank you sir. Nevertheless, I could wear the mexican birthday hat and get that and wake up just eying my swords up, thinking: "If only these were my actual hands, I could chop off all my limbs, these weird bastards that got attached by some alien agency! If only!"

I don't like thinking about it, I'm just good at it.


Some people don't have any fear, not even the sensible kind. They wear the Mexican birthday hat with a great enthusiasm, they can't even be photographed for their kinetic display of joy. No harm must ever come to such people - they must never face or know disappointment or loss or sorrow. It's vital that this be the case.

My parents took us out - they gave her $39 in a card and gave me $11 - like a joke, that they'd confused them, us, I laughed. My parents, looking worse for wear, looking, being - just old, not decrepit, not failing - but you know, these are powerful, vital people and they're less than that now and I feel it in myself - this fading of youth's bloom. And I see, what 30 years from now will look like. You learn as you go. 11 - do you think she thinks she'll be 39 some day? It took me this long to imagine myself older than I am - I'm a thorough learner, but slow, it would seem.

There's much more to it, you know, than birth and death and all the anniversaries in between. There's life and how it is lived and how it is wasted and how it is regretted.

Lately, so far, I've got few regrets - this year's been good. The last one - and I mark the years by my birthday - who cares for the careless sun - it doesn't care a bit about me - which is manifest in the year since last March the 15th - a cold wet summer, dark and dreary - a long, impossibly cold winter - the sun's done me no favors in this turning of the year so I'm less inclined than ever to consider the motion of the earth and sun around their central point in terms of what day time pivots upon.

See, I argued this, but not persuasively today - earlier - because that's the life I have. The past is narrative, it's arc and story - it may concievably exist as a place and even as a true thing - but the narrative function of existence, of cultured existence that grants us the ability to describe what has occurred - that's the whole of the past - of what's happened up to now. It's that narrative- and the story of this year last - it's a grim act III - starting with endings and ending with the cliffhanger of what's yet to come, the exciting sequel - stay tuned.



It's the lack of notable activity that's probably the notable thing. Worthy of comment is the lack of commendable action. At the rundown convenience I'm behind the people - buying candy with their direction card - I'm not displeased on that account, but holding the line to wander the store and perform arcane transactions without any regard for those around you - I dislike that narrow vision of the world - what is available and close to hand, what can be had. They did not buy the pre-cut chore-boy bits, halmark of the crack-enthusiast, but they did buy the sandwich bags - this is one I don't really know. Drug paraphernalia - you know, it's always behind the counter - chore-boy, the sandwich bags, the tube socks and the roses in glass vials - some I know, but what's up with the sandwich bag? For huffing? It's a funny old world. I kind of wish that it wasn't full of gamblers and drug addicts - there's that that bothers me. Which I mention without a real thought for coherence here- but I was changing clothes from the wash to the dryer just before and thought of it.

I sit too much, in my cube, in my windowless office, I work hard and come home and am - unimpressive. Today, that's me. I wish I had grander things to say, but just at the moment it's a quiet kind of time for gathering the confused and disarrayed portions of the self back to me. I'll cohere into a radiant angel, a deity indistinguishable from advanced technology - all insufficient - that'll come later on.

Probably tomorrow.

Tonight is laundry and some beer to make it less tedious.

Comments

[kingtycoon.livejournal.com]

Really these things said on my birthday, these reminisces...

I think sometimes they reek of a false modesty - Oh, I've only painted 100 pictures and only some of them were any good, I've only written a few books and they're just mediocre, I've only been to the most inhabited continents, I've only made and lost one fortune, I've only had several professions, I've only had a few great romances, I've only... I've only... I've only...

Even if the benchmarks are high you still want for more tomorrow. That's all. And greater things still before your end.

[jjjiii]

Happy birthday, again.

[kingtycoon.livejournal.com]

Thanks JJJIII