I wanted to write something at the beginning of my "Golden Birthday" in commemoration of the event. It is not that the "Golden Birthday" is special, but it is a fun idea that I would like to observe. Like so many other great nothings in our lives, the "Golden Birthday" gives us more cause to celebrate than we normally ought. Yet, in some way, is it not essential to the proper welfare of humanity that we create more jubilee than is necessary? Perhaps it is not so dramatic as that, but we can pretend anyways.
Now that I have reached this "Golden Birthday" of mine, I am not so sure that I am happy to have reached it. You see, with a title like "Golden Birthday" you really can't get much better going forward. Sure, we could come up with some more excuses to slather on additional celebration by saying that the square of the "Golden Birthday" be called the "Platinum Birthday", and in so doing we must celebrate to the fourth power of awesome. Perhaps we could say that the year our birthday causes us to turn a prime number could be called the "Prime Birthday" and to celebrate we eat an undivided pizza by ourselves. Or we could even celebrate our 31 birthday and call it the "Pi Birthday" where you must eat an entire pie. The possibilities are endless. Nevertheless, we do not have such traditions in our culture.
Although I have always wanted to start a major cultural trend, I do not think I shall succeed with this cause. Therefore, I relinquish myself to the fate that awaits, and shall grasp this resplendent year of mine by the ephemeral horns of its existence. Indeed, that I should do anything less then wonderful would be a crying shame, a most mournful waste of perfectly good potential. This day shall be - wait for it - legend - wait for it - dary!
So how will I start my day? It has already stared. First, I shall sleep until I wake up, which shall be followed by a rather vigorous yawn that will signal me rolling over and falling back to sleep. Upon waking the second time I will likely take some sort of cleansing routine, be it a shower or a bubble bath. Accordingly, I shall fall asleep in said routine for approximately four minutes. Afterwards I shall sally-forth to Tucanos, whereupon copious amounts of red meat and fried bananas will be consumed. From there I will fall into a splendid food coma, such an one that man has never seen before. It all gets sort of hazy from there...
What good is there in a "Golden Birthday?" I can't really say, but I do know that I really look forward to eating a small coop of chicken hearts and a few bundles worth of fried bananas. And, with luck, I will finally come to appreciate the fact that I have more Golden years ahead of me than I am leaving behind.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Inexplicably Emotional
Perhaps there is something wrong with me, or perhaps there is something wired askew in my emotional circuitry, but I am at my most emotional when I am extremely ill. And I do not speak of the malady of mind, but indeed of physical distress. As though shivering and sneezing and moaning like an operatic zombie isn't enough, my body decides I also need to throw in an extra dose of estrogen to kick-start the waterworks over every little thing.
For example, today I lay watching the Special Edition Lord of the Rings Blu-Ray appendices and began to have some intense emotional stirrings. I do claim to often become deeply contemplative whilst watching LOTR the movie, but what sober-minded man weeps at the information found in the documentary? Honestly, had you witnessed this event today you would have supposed I had viewed a masterful mash-up of A Walk to Remember and Bambi. Tissues were not found in sufficient abundance to stem the flow.
Okay, so I exaggerate perhaps a little; but the fact remains that I have been inextricably emotional, and it is not constrained to just this past week. Every time that I contract a sickness of some form where I enter a weakened and ailing state I begin to feel great swellings of unwanted feelings. The slightest provocation sends me careening down a slope of tender and lugubrious weeping.
To be fair to myself and my manhood, it is not just anything that sets me off. It wasn't the description of the art used to model Rivendell that sent me into hysterics, nor did the decomposition of the process used to make elvish ears cause my mournful demeanor. Indeed, these were welcomed respites from the demonstrative parts of the film. No, the parts that did touch me so fervently were at least thematically grand, and on their base level should have evoked some sort of response from my psyche.
Aside from the grandeur of my thoughts, there was no other reason for why I felt so distraught. However, I feel as though sickness is a blessing to man when he has locked away that emotion which he does not wish to feel. Of a truth I have not wished to touch upon these corners of my existence because I had long since abandoned them for what I had deemed more practical. Things such as logic, reason, duty, and pragmatism surely could supplant these feelings in my life, these feelings which had on so many occasions seemingly betrayed me to the dogs. What need had I for something so treacherous as the affectations of my soul?
But alas, like a forty-thousand pound hammer left hanging by a failing and neglected thread, my "weakness" came smashing down on me when all other fortifications had failed. The blubbery nonsense of pent-up stress and disappointment began to manifest itself in bizarre ways. Weep at the mention of an actor who took his job a little too seriously so he could deliver the best performance of his life? Why not! It's pretty much on par with watching a three-legged dog save a baby from some burning wreckage. Mourn over the ending of the appendices you've been watching for 6 hours? Of course! I bet Victor Hugo cried when he finished Les Miserables, which is practically the same experience.
Of all the moments I cried (okay, in reality, I only teared up, but by Jove it was very close to crocodile tears), none hit me more than the discussion of the fellowship built around the actors. Naturally such an event would not cause even the most distraught soul to cry, for it was an inherently happy moment; but something else about the statement really caught my mind. In the documentary they spoke on how this band of actors formed a bond through a common purpose, a sense of grandeur in the task ahead, and in the shared mutual respect amongst themselves.
I know, this truly is the deepest well of human sobriety. Naturally all humans would find such a thing intrinsically touching and profoundly thought provoking. But to me, at that moment, it struck me with a wonderful beauty that my ill-induced fervor surely catalyzed. What a glorious thought it was, to imagine that we, as humans, gain camaraderie not so much by the acts, but by the intentions of our actions.
My emotions are a tricky thing, I know. This is why I do not play with them often, nor let them out to play for many others to see. But I do feel blessed when nature smacks me with its heavy hand and reminds me of the frailness of my existence, because I almost always gain a new insight about my life. Ailments such as these cause me - nay, force me - to contemplate on my existence, on who I am, and how I am to play my part. And it is after these times that I realize that I don't hate my emotions, I just can't handle them around all the time.
For example, today I lay watching the Special Edition Lord of the Rings Blu-Ray appendices and began to have some intense emotional stirrings. I do claim to often become deeply contemplative whilst watching LOTR the movie, but what sober-minded man weeps at the information found in the documentary? Honestly, had you witnessed this event today you would have supposed I had viewed a masterful mash-up of A Walk to Remember and Bambi. Tissues were not found in sufficient abundance to stem the flow.
Okay, so I exaggerate perhaps a little; but the fact remains that I have been inextricably emotional, and it is not constrained to just this past week. Every time that I contract a sickness of some form where I enter a weakened and ailing state I begin to feel great swellings of unwanted feelings. The slightest provocation sends me careening down a slope of tender and lugubrious weeping.
To be fair to myself and my manhood, it is not just anything that sets me off. It wasn't the description of the art used to model Rivendell that sent me into hysterics, nor did the decomposition of the process used to make elvish ears cause my mournful demeanor. Indeed, these were welcomed respites from the demonstrative parts of the film. No, the parts that did touch me so fervently were at least thematically grand, and on their base level should have evoked some sort of response from my psyche.
Aside from the grandeur of my thoughts, there was no other reason for why I felt so distraught. However, I feel as though sickness is a blessing to man when he has locked away that emotion which he does not wish to feel. Of a truth I have not wished to touch upon these corners of my existence because I had long since abandoned them for what I had deemed more practical. Things such as logic, reason, duty, and pragmatism surely could supplant these feelings in my life, these feelings which had on so many occasions seemingly betrayed me to the dogs. What need had I for something so treacherous as the affectations of my soul?
But alas, like a forty-thousand pound hammer left hanging by a failing and neglected thread, my "weakness" came smashing down on me when all other fortifications had failed. The blubbery nonsense of pent-up stress and disappointment began to manifest itself in bizarre ways. Weep at the mention of an actor who took his job a little too seriously so he could deliver the best performance of his life? Why not! It's pretty much on par with watching a three-legged dog save a baby from some burning wreckage. Mourn over the ending of the appendices you've been watching for 6 hours? Of course! I bet Victor Hugo cried when he finished Les Miserables, which is practically the same experience.
Of all the moments I cried (okay, in reality, I only teared up, but by Jove it was very close to crocodile tears), none hit me more than the discussion of the fellowship built around the actors. Naturally such an event would not cause even the most distraught soul to cry, for it was an inherently happy moment; but something else about the statement really caught my mind. In the documentary they spoke on how this band of actors formed a bond through a common purpose, a sense of grandeur in the task ahead, and in the shared mutual respect amongst themselves.
I know, this truly is the deepest well of human sobriety. Naturally all humans would find such a thing intrinsically touching and profoundly thought provoking. But to me, at that moment, it struck me with a wonderful beauty that my ill-induced fervor surely catalyzed. What a glorious thought it was, to imagine that we, as humans, gain camaraderie not so much by the acts, but by the intentions of our actions.
My emotions are a tricky thing, I know. This is why I do not play with them often, nor let them out to play for many others to see. But I do feel blessed when nature smacks me with its heavy hand and reminds me of the frailness of my existence, because I almost always gain a new insight about my life. Ailments such as these cause me - nay, force me - to contemplate on my existence, on who I am, and how I am to play my part. And it is after these times that I realize that I don't hate my emotions, I just can't handle them around all the time.
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