Someone's Sixty-Fifth

I never go out. I stay in my cell, my Rubik's Cube,
because I have to move something to move something
to move the original thing I want moved. I am an
urban neo-monastic hermit. I'm supposed to take
a walk everyday, at least to the Gerrard Square Mall,
where Basic Foods ministers to my edible survival.
Other than that, an occasional trip to the physician
or the dietician or the ambulatory specialist and I
should go get my eye glasses updated. A trip, a
dozen trips to the dentist wouldn't hurt as much
physically as finanicially. I never visit friends, who
I do tend too often to think of in the past sense.
But that's my fawlt. Too long learning the difference
between loneliness and aloneness and more and
more embracing the latter (with my Krowbrain [my
iMac], my big-screen TV whom I call simply Mr Big,
my rickety-tick-tick killer of a fan, named Merton,
and Jungle Leaves, my hanging plant that requires
no sunlite. So, who's lonely?

A frend I've known since 1958 just had a birthday.
She'd retired from a lifetime of productive work
doing good and earning a paycheque to support
herself and much of the time with her hubby their
three (all grown up now) kids, retired as said, just 2
weeks before. But on Sunday in the afternoon and
into the evening, another of our frendz assembled
the folks mostly from town (but one flew in from
California - Washington - Oregon somewhere),
assembled us who had co-survived these several
decades.

For an old-timer like me, and many of us, it was
a grand bash. I don't think there was any music all
day. There was food, but I deferred until later on,
since I had none of my cholesterol pills with me.
But, yes later, I did sample just about everything,
and even had a fabulous sin-dessert.

We all told a story of relationship to Madame X,
the lady whose glory we had gathered to celebrate.
It was a right good honour to be able to do so,
and I found myself congratulated for being a bit
witty, much to my surprise. But we must consider
the folks gathered. Few of us have ever specialized
in joyous glib and uproarous gossip, remembrance
or pure roast (yes there was some of all that on
Sunday afternoon and evening; perhaps we all
surprized ourselves).

Did I mention that I imbibed? Yes, a little wine here
for this toast, and a little wine there for that toast,
sip, sip, lift glass, toast, sip, sip, a joke, a sip, a story,
a sip, here a sip, there a sip, everywhere a sip, sip ...

I was fine. No trouble. I got a ride home. I felt fine.
I stayed up a little while. I got my accoutrements in
order, and dishabille-ed myself into bed, with my
eye-mask in place, and my breathing mask fit titely
to my head, and slept.

And in the morning I awoke ... with a wicked
hangover. No hair of the dog at hand. I drank lots
of water. My pill load for the day. And two Tylenol.
It was a great day thereafter, reminiscing yesterday's
encounters with frendz who go back four and a half
decades to college days, some of them. And many
other longterm connections that embraced three
generations, four if you count-in the dear dead we
remembered and toasted. I can remember several
times, one or another of us couldn't keep track
between the word's one's saying and the feelings
rushing along with remembrance beyond the
words and fell from one's eyes like salty water.

God bless you all dear frendz at DSM's 65th.
God bless us all - Owlb