Just over a month has passed since my 72nd birthday. I still find it difficult to believe I have lived that long. And, for the immediately foreseeable future, I will continue to live. Unless, of course, I don’t. That’s the kind of unexpected turn of events that can completely wreck one’s plans. To avoid that level of disruption, it is best not to make plans that could be ruined by one’s death. So, no gala parties that would have to be cancelled on short notice. No appointments for haircuts, pedicures, visits with doctors, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, breakfast meetings, speeches given to Congress or the Pismo Beach Garden Club, and so on. And, of course, no birthday parties; a birthday party for a dead celebrant is apt to be something of a downer. I have not had a birthday party thrown on my behalf (except one) for as long as I can remember. Nor have I held one for myself. Most of my birthdays have been acknowledged by small numbers of family and/or friends. The only party I recall was on my 50th birthday, when a couple of employees decided to surprise me. I was surprised by that surprise party. And I was genuinely grateful for it. Nothing like it happened on my two subsequent “milestone” birthdays. I doubt my next “milestone” birthday will be appropriate for celebration, though if I’m around to celebrate my 80th birthday, I won’t try to dissuade anyone from making plans.
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Music binds the wounds we sustain in our chaotic battles to achieve tranquility. Music is more effective than the salve of artificial sympathies, whose sources have little depth. In the right circumstances, even loud, percussive music can intervene on behalf of serenity, as if the turbulence of its sound is capable of smoothing and softening the frenzied nature of emotional disruption. But not everyone is able to slide, invisibly, into a musical cocoon. For them, certain music can simply aggravate an already stressful experience. Listening to a funeral dirge, for example, can trigger emotional waterworks. So-called “sad songs,” though, sometimes help lessen the intensity of the moment by bringing closure to an upsetting episode in one’s life.
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What happens to a close friendship that falls into disrepair and distance when, in spite of time’s healing powers, efforts to resurrect the relationship fail to recapture lost informality? Can the comfortable, casual connection, once so powerful and so natural, be restored? Is the closeness that once existed gone forever, a victim of the irreversible and unnecessary mistakes that caused the rift to form?
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Owls in the trees near the house made their presence known last night by calling out to one another, “Who Who Who.” Though similar, I could tell the two “voices” of the owls I heard came from two different birds; perhaps having an avian conversation. I have seen only one owl relatively close-up since moving to the Village, I think, almost twelve years ago. But I hear them frequently.
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I believe Amazon and Facebook listen to me. They pay close attention; if I mention anything available for purchase either or or through either platform, they take action, presenting me with offers to buy that product. Amazon, obviously, is listening at all times; it is obvious because the Amazon devices respond immediately when I say “Alexa.” And sometimes when I say something else, the devices think I am interested in having a conversation. Not infrequently, the devices—mistakenly think I am fluent in Spanish—launch into tirades that I find unintelligible except for occasional words or phrases, like “suero de la leche,” “mermelada de fresa,” “mujer con un corazón negro,” or “falsa bravuconería.
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I think it’s time for another espresso. Ideally, the espresso would accompany some fresh papaya, half a grapefruit, and a piece of fresh, hot sourdough bread. I would be satisfied with salt potatoes, though; a friend posted a simple recipe for the dish, identifying it as one of the most satisfying foods she has ever eaten.
