Happy Birthday to ME!

Pardon the interruption but it seems to me a little pause to invite some lightness of spirit is in order, no? Feeling the need to pace myself as I put the finishing touches on my tetraptych of tetraptychs, I set…

Happy Birthday to ME!

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Pardon the interruption but it seems to me a little pause to invite some lightness of spirit is in order, no? Feeling the need to pace myself as I put the finishing touches on my tetraptych of tetraptychs, I set the project aside for most of the day in favour of calling my grandmothers and loafing at my ease. I swear I must be one of the only people who always knows without fail how to get out in front of my father’s mother – otherwise known amongst we of the youngest generation of Clarks and Bells as Grandma – and temper her funny attempts to take offence at silly things. To wit: I dialled my mother’s adoptive mother – otherwise known as Grandy – first, having not spoken to her as recently, but the line was busy and in doing so I only narrowly avoided lighting an ember of envy under Grandma when the fact came up at the outset of our ensuing chat by pointing out that blood is thicker than water and hence moves slower, at which she conceded defeat and acknowledged that I had condemned her to a good mood for the day. So much so, in fact, that after we had said our goodbyes a half hour or so later so she could tackle cleaning the outside of her windows as she’d been trying to motivate herself to do all morning, she called me five hours later to announce the resounding success of her venture:

“You know the secret?”

Of course I do: vinegar!

“Exactly! Then you don’t get streaks.”

Her enthusiasm very nearly inspired me to have at the Palace mirrors with some newsprint and dilute acetic myself, but knowing all too well never to underestimate a mystic loafe, I didn’t force anything, and sure enough, besides putting a few soundtracks together, a late load of laundry proved the extent of my labours for the day… Or so I thought..

Mighty fatigued after chatting with Sant’Antonio into the wee hours, when bed beckoned as the dryer wound down to the end of its timer, I was most certainly ready for it, but was foiled by a drum o’ damp duds, and lo and behold, with the twenty-one minutes or so added to the heel of my loafe with a crank of a knob, I realized time’s passage had carried us clear into the first anniversary of a certain momentous occasion well worth a little celebratory chorus line in spite of the obnoxious Instagram post of a needy boy with a cellphone in his hand shitting blood all over a flock of butterflies that followed a few days afterwards. Full disclosure: after a few hours and what must have been at least 52 attempts with each mistake that tanked a take seemingly falling in a new spot according to some arcane caprice, I caved and asked for coach’s opinion on this one, warts and all:

“He dissolves his bond with his group.
Supreme good fortune.
Dispersion leads in turn to accumulation.
This is something ordinary men do not think of.”

Having rather enjoyed what the day had brought senza DDB’s high expectations for my work ethic, I naturally wondered if the floodgates had just been re-opened, and followed by asking what I would be doing if I were to furnish this description and post this clip the ole fashioned way hand-in-claw:

One sits oppressed under a bare tree
And strays into a gloomy valley.
For three years one sees nothing.

Damn, I can think of a lot of things that aren’t nothing that I would like to see before I’m the same age Christ died, and that spread of yours in an upcoming issue of People I saw a shot from certainly calls the crown jewel amongst the lot to mind besides reacquainting my lower jaw with its old Persian pal, which I notice by the taste on my lolling tongue could use some attention from the vacuum; better steer clear of the gloomy valley and handle this one alone. That is, unless you’d like to lend a hand, my dear, by furnishing your best guess whose outfit I was trying to channel when I threw on some old high-waisted Calvins I haven’t worn in a coon’s age and a floral top to compensate for my lack of a wildflower and tiny plaid collar? Here’s a hint: I probably don’t want to understand your Dad’s beef with her and if I’d been born forty years earlier I’d have had a pretty legit crush on her by the time we were both thirty and the photo I’m thinking of would have been taken. Damn and she’d just got divorced the previous year, too?! Nothing beats a woman who’s talented, dedicated, compassionate and available, wot!

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