Tuesday, February 16, 2010

#%#$@!!@&**&^%$$#@! Birthday

I hate my fucking birthday.

It's not because I had a bad one this year - it was quite nice, as birthdays go (despite my distinct non-winning of the lottery). I happily began tidying my sewing room and started the big freezer defrosting, and went out for dinner to a local hot dog joint that has the best chili-cheese fries for clogging one's arteries on the planet.

No, I hate my fucking birthday because of ghosts and shades of birthdays past.

When I was quite young, I'm sure there were cakes and parties. I vaguely remember one birthday spent at Burger Chef, my favorite dining establishment as a child. See a pattern, here?

But somewhere around the time I hit double digits, birthdays became something of a...meh.

I saw other kids having parties, but I didn't have them. Other kids had family and friends to celebrate with them...I usually spent the day alone, perhaps the recipient of a half-hearted wish for a happy birthday from someone who felt obliged if I happened to mention it was my natal day. I started thinking I didn't like my fucking birthday.

I got tired of begging people to notice or care, so I was quick to quit mentioning it. I was almost certain I didn't care for my fucking birthday.

I watched other kids get gifts and phone calls and visits from family when I was in boarding school, but again, I spent most of my so-called "special day" largely unnoticed, although my mother did try to make sure she called and sent a gift, and that meant a lot to me...but at that age (early teens), one wished one's peers might give a damn. I didn't even harbor a tiny hope that my father would make an appearance of any sort. Or my grandmother would orchestrate a birthday fiasco that was basically a bribe to the other kids to be nice to me for a day so they'd get dinner out and cake.

I firmed up my notion that I hate my fucking birthday.

I spent my high school years without so much as a ruffle on the "happy birthday" waters, and that was fine. I couldn't be bothered to care that I was alive, why the Hell should anyone else.

In my early twenties, I was part of a large social group that sometimes made a fuss over birthdays and sometimes didn't...but I always felt loved. Still...I hated my fucking birthday out of habit.

Mid-twenties, my birthday became a death day, too - a beloved friend and member of my social group died on that day and I was once again firmly entrenched in the idea that my birthday fucking sucks, and I hate it.

Now in my...never mind what age...I'm still not convinced that it's worth the bother. Oh, don't get me wrong...there are people who love me very much who make sure to tell me so (and not JUST on my birthday) and who make an effort to let me know that they're glad I was born. I know I'm loved.

But I'm still that kid who kept getting the message that she didn't matter to anyone, wasn't worth the effort, time, or care. As an adult, I can't shake that old hurt. I also, in recent years, can't help but think I've wasted my life, that I'm wandering through the years in a daze doing nothing of worth...and that maybe it's to late.

So I still hate my fucking birthday and am just as happy to get past it and on with the next downhill slide to aging gracelessly.

Monday, February 1, 2010

The Art of Him

Oh, how I love him.

I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.

Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.

I like that idea.

Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.

I love this beautiful man.

Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.

Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...

The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm hand...music...there is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.

Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...

I'm at a loss.

I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...

There is no art so fine as the original.