Freewheelin'
I haven't been the happiest chap in the world for the past 2 years or so. My life seems to be at a complete stand-still while everybody else is moving forward and moving on. At a 2007 New Years Eve party I got so uptight and anxious because everyone was talking about their job and I just had nothing to relate to. That's something that has kind of crippled all of my social interactions since I graduated college: everybody is doing something and it's hard to have a conversation when you have nothing new to say. People would ask my what I was up to and...I wouldn't want to say nothing, but I didn't want to lie. I know most people ask those questions to be polite and that only a select coterie actually cares in a much deeper way than others care, but I don't want to just. lie to people.
So when my mother asked me to email her about what would make my birthday perfect, I could have easily and somewhat truthfully said that my perfect birthday would be one where I didn't wake up with my life in the present state that it is, or more simply one in which I didn't wake up at all. But that would be too easy, too upsetting for everyone involved.
So when tasked to think of my perfect birthday, I'd be lying if I said it didn't involve something similar to this:
We wake up and go to breakfast at the Trinity College cafeteria where a group of international Special Olympians are enjoying various cereals, juices and the finest meats and cheeses Dublin has to offer. And Irish coffee (not Irish Coffee), the thick, bitter stuff that punches you in the face when you drink it. Then back to the dorm room to shower in the strange, dark shower closet where the floor is wood and you should wear flip-flops to avoid getting foot rot. Then trekking to the DART station and going, as a group, to Sandycove for the day, seeing Martello Castle and eating lunch on the beach. Then going back to Trinity and taking a nap instead of eating supper, then drinking Bulmer's instead of eating supper, then going to a pup where some Irish man is singing Irish pop songs and a man named Collie, on his way to America tomorrow, steals your hat and sings Sinatra to you...even if it seems a little odd. The night is made better because all of the free drinks people are giving you, even if you shudder when you take shots of Jameson. Then when it's 2am and everyone goes home, except you and another guy and a girl you fancy, so you head to a pup that closes even later, drink more, eat shitty pizza because neither of you remembered dinner. After the guy leaves, you stay at the pup for another 20 minutes with the girl and you walk the nearly-empty streets of Dublin, feeling safe, smoking cigarettes, feeling like Freewheelin' Bob Dylan did when he shot that album cover. Then you drop her off at her dorm, say good night and walk back to your dorm, alone, not fucking things up with complications. You walk inside and hear yout two sleeping roommates and, in an attempt to let them sleep peacefully, you close off the living room and slowly fall asleep on the couch, staring at the sky thinking "how could it be so bright at 4am?" and thinking about how perfect the day was.
And I guess since that day happened in 2003, I feel lucky. Lucky to have been born, lucky to still be alive. I know it's cliche to be hopeful. The knowledge that perfect days happen and that such sublime bliss may come in small increments, but are always alive in memory are why I smile sometimes, even in this abyss of boredom, anxiety, ennui and depression. I've only had about a dozen perfect days in my life, but I know I'll have more and that being alive is the only way I'm going to have them. A good friend asked me how I was doing the other day and I told him that I wasn't doing great, but that's life and this is the only one I've got. I think it's much better than the alternative.
So when my mother asked me to email her about what would make my birthday perfect, I could have easily and somewhat truthfully said that my perfect birthday would be one where I didn't wake up with my life in the present state that it is, or more simply one in which I didn't wake up at all. But that would be too easy, too upsetting for everyone involved.
So when tasked to think of my perfect birthday, I'd be lying if I said it didn't involve something similar to this:
We wake up and go to breakfast at the Trinity College cafeteria where a group of international Special Olympians are enjoying various cereals, juices and the finest meats and cheeses Dublin has to offer. And Irish coffee (not Irish Coffee), the thick, bitter stuff that punches you in the face when you drink it. Then back to the dorm room to shower in the strange, dark shower closet where the floor is wood and you should wear flip-flops to avoid getting foot rot. Then trekking to the DART station and going, as a group, to Sandycove for the day, seeing Martello Castle and eating lunch on the beach. Then going back to Trinity and taking a nap instead of eating supper, then drinking Bulmer's instead of eating supper, then going to a pup where some Irish man is singing Irish pop songs and a man named Collie, on his way to America tomorrow, steals your hat and sings Sinatra to you...even if it seems a little odd. The night is made better because all of the free drinks people are giving you, even if you shudder when you take shots of Jameson. Then when it's 2am and everyone goes home, except you and another guy and a girl you fancy, so you head to a pup that closes even later, drink more, eat shitty pizza because neither of you remembered dinner. After the guy leaves, you stay at the pup for another 20 minutes with the girl and you walk the nearly-empty streets of Dublin, feeling safe, smoking cigarettes, feeling like Freewheelin' Bob Dylan did when he shot that album cover. Then you drop her off at her dorm, say good night and walk back to your dorm, alone, not fucking things up with complications. You walk inside and hear yout two sleeping roommates and, in an attempt to let them sleep peacefully, you close off the living room and slowly fall asleep on the couch, staring at the sky thinking "how could it be so bright at 4am?" and thinking about how perfect the day was.
And I guess since that day happened in 2003, I feel lucky. Lucky to have been born, lucky to still be alive. I know it's cliche to be hopeful. The knowledge that perfect days happen and that such sublime bliss may come in small increments, but are always alive in memory are why I smile sometimes, even in this abyss of boredom, anxiety, ennui and depression. I've only had about a dozen perfect days in my life, but I know I'll have more and that being alive is the only way I'm going to have them. A good friend asked me how I was doing the other day and I told him that I wasn't doing great, but that's life and this is the only one I've got. I think it's much better than the alternative.