46 Now

The snow was falling when I woke this morning. The first real snow of the year. The city is whiter and softer. This is an excellent present for my 46th birthday.

Birthdays are never easy. When you’re young, it’s the pressure, the excitement, having to behave in a manner befitting the guest of honor. Don’t yell, don’t cry, don’t throw cake. Later, it’s an exercise in self-affirmation -- do I have enough friends? Are they good enough to me? Did I drink enough?

Then it becomes a more interior thing. At some point, the haver of the birthday takes the pressure off of his friends and makes the event something of his or her own. He or she might throw a party, or let the spouse throw it, but he or she owns it now.

Then of course, there is the philosophical element. What does it mean? The answer is all too plain, and getting plainer every year. I’m a year closer to my death.

For me, that realization doesn’t bring up the fear of death. It’s worse. I feel my life slipping through my fingers, like a wet vine. It’s not that I’m not living it fully; I think I’m doing reasonably well on that front. It’s just that I have so much to do. Novels and screenplays to write, movies to make, socio-political systems to build. And the frightening idea is that I don’t seem to be plowing forward on those fields at anything approaching a satisfying rate. What accomplishments will I look back upon, at age 80, (should I make it that far)?

I suppose if I make it to 80, I’d rather look back on a calm and present existence, rather than a frantic and pressured one. Let’s hope that one year from now I’m closer to that reality, even if I haven’t published, produced, or harvested.

Happy birthday, Kurt. You’re doing all right.