Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Thoughts, Writing, Birthdays

The waiter who says he is an actor, the secretary who is a dancer, the teacher who says they are a writer. All of these lies we tell others or we tell ourselves to make us feel better about ourselves. To make us feel something extra-ordinary. I do not even have this lie, for one truism of a writer is that he write, and here it be damn near half a year without me writing nothing more than a few Christmas cards. My aspirations of being a novelist, a screenwriter, or a playwright are diminished as the years go by in a blinding blur. And still I have not written anything of substantive value. One man once said to me ideas are a dime a dozen, it takes only 90% talent and 10% luck...but without that 10 percent, you're fucked. I can piss and moan about luck, but I have not been writing, not been putting myself out there and have a dwindling desire to do so. I cannot escape my rise to mediocrity. My aspirations of the average.

This all comes, along with a more deteriorating body and pancreas; as my diabetes swings out of control once more, and as I turn 39. I am almost 40 and have had no effect or affect on anyone or anything in my life, or that is way I perceive it to be at times. I know that truly cannot be the case and I will never need Clarence to show me the ere of my ways, but sometimes it just seems that way. I look at others, younger than me, with families and accomplishments I may never see. While I am not jealous nor envious I wonder what I could have, should have, done differently to make my life more meaningful. Though I am overwrought at times, I am never depressed about my state, I am happy now, more than I have been in the past. While I am happy, I can be happier, true, but I am happy with what I have even if more never comes. Even if no one sees my writing in print or film, even if I am not the power ball mega zillions winner.

This year my birthday party was postponed on account of weather. When I was born there was a snow storm a day prior and the streets were iced over and it was dangerously cold and a friend drove my mother to the hospital, the car skidding along the icy streets, coming dangerously close to crashing and ending my life before it started. (incidentally I was due on Dec 25th and decided I wanted to stay warm for another 12 days, and finally made my debut on Jan 6th) Since then aside from one year, where it was an unseasonably warm and lovely day of 70 degrees, it has either snowed on my birthday or there has just been a snowstorm. We were supposed to have 6 inches, we got a mere 2 this time. People's GPS systems led them astray and the directions were not good enough for all. Some had no problems or didn't reveal them to me but others were vocal and that is par for the course I guess. The food was good, as was the company as was the generosity, though I felt something lacking and I am wondering if I am getting too old. Then I thought that cannot be the case. It was probably because it was like 5 degrees and I was freezing my balls off every time we went from venue to venue. I think I am going to move my birthday to summer from here on. How does that sound?

I also wonder will I age next year or be 39 forever. It sounds much more palatable than 40, but since I look like I am 30 and act like I am 13 what does it matter that I have the body of a 70 year old? Any one have an extra pancreas they can spare? or a knee? Ahhh, who cares anyway. at least while I deteriorate I can say I am working on the great American novel....even though that is not the case, I can always pull up something I wrote some time ago and say this is what I am working on....Hey that isn't such a bad idea is it?

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