Birthday Week

It’s that time again, but what does it mean?

This will be my “Paul McCartney” birthday. When I first heard the song, I thought, “Hell, I’ll never be 64!” I just couldn’t imagine it, and now it’s here. I was born on August 9, 1945, the same day we dropped the second atomic bomb on Japan, obliterating the city of Nagasaki. Numbers don’t lie, so that adds up to 64. One more year to go before I’m eligible for Medicare and I can get my first physical examination in over a dozen years. At this point, then, I’m actually looking forward to gaining another year.

Well, sort of.

My wife complains of being tired all the time. There’s nothing wrong with her. I think it’s the situation: she’s already 65 and still waiting for me to “make it.” We don’t have a home of our own and may never own one again. We don’t even have a large enough rental for her to gather all her mementos and such in one place. At least on her bad days, like yesterday, she doesn’t see any great hope on the horizon and thinks about death a lot. (She’s also the most empathic person in the world, and I’m sure I pull her down when I’m neck-deep in the swamp.) This is what precipitously leaping into space like we did in ’99 by moving to New Mexico can do to a person, especially when her husband needed years of psychoanalysis just to reach the Possibly Redeemable stage. I’m like a whole new person now, but this hasn’t yet manifested itself in an acceptable standard of living. I feel certain that our chances are improving, of course. It’s just that the sand is draining from the hourglass while the struggle goes on.

That’s what it is, the constant pushing. And yet, and yet…

We’ve never been closer to each other. I no longer project the fear and pain of my upbringing onto her. I trust her, and she’s my best friend. I’ve never had more love in my heart than I do now. There are so many emotions welling up in me now — love, joy, sadness, and anger — all whirling and thumping and crying out for recognition. Sometimes both of us just feel like sobbing from the constant enormity of it all. And in the midst of all this, it turns out I’ll get to play in a rock & roll band on my birthday.

The music is a crazy joy: every minute spent rehearsing is a revelation in letting go and giving in to the creative process. I’ve always played the guitar, but only mostly for myself and working mostly on my own tunes. This time is different, very different indeed. The amazing thing (to me) is that I can do it. That’s right, I can do it. I have the talent. Sixty-four goddamn years old on Sunday, and I can do it! Today I practiced a couple of songs I haven’t ever been able to nail down, and at first I still couldn’t make them work. But then I relaxed and took risks. I turned the vibrato all the way up on the Twin Reverb and dialed the volume up, too, then just played for me, like I wanted. Lo and behold, everything came together! I can hardly wait for the next band rehearsal, so I can spring this on the other guys. This stuff makes me smile. I get to jump around with a big guitar around my neck. I might as well be 20, not almost 64. Is this a hoot or what?!

So how can things be bad, with raw creativity and new discoveries pouring in like this? I’m living in Taos, New Mexico, forgodssakes. There’s a MOUNTAIN right outside my window. I’m healthy and happier. Little else is “right” with our lives, but I’m making music. I’m alive. My honey will come around, she always does.

Onward, chilluns.

[More bulletins from the front soon, as circumstances warrant.]

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