I remain single, not lonely; the dogs are great company. My days and nights are mostly quiet, filled with books and music and movies. I've been awake since 1:30 now, Ricki Lee Jones is on the stereo.
Time was when the occasion of my birthday meant a week of celebrating. I had my nipple pierced one year. I was tattooed on my 42nd birthday, a Good Friday. I drank a lot of Jack Daniels and altered my mind with a variety of chemical experiences.
Tonight I had one Jack Daniels and a dose of AlkaSeltzer Cold Plus. I nodded off about 10pm.
It has been two years since I last received a birthday card from a grandparent, always with a few dollars tucked in with the wishes. My parents turned 75 and 74 this month, and I am acutely aware of our finite time together and my 54-year-old heart often swells to bursting with the love I have for my family.
This week, one of my dearest friends came for a brief visit. We've been friends for almost 30 years and it took only a few minutes for us to fall into old conversations and familiar laughter. We lamented our physical limitations, remembered the times before our bodies betrayed us and understood how fortunate we were to have led the lives we have.
I once only carried an image of myself at 17, the whole world in front of me. I still have that image, blurred. I now have images of myself at 33, the brash poet with his long blonde hair. More often, I see myself at 42, a wild horse all muscle and force on the dance floor. I packed a lot of life into the better part of three decades.
I have no regrets. I have memories to entertain me forever. Probably a few more poems.
I know there is still a great deal of living left for me. I still have dreams. I understand more keenly how time is no longer my friend, rather the shadow I must try to elude.
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