I remember distinctly the day I turned 53. For some reason, I still felt young at 52, but 53 somehow seemed the start of middle age. I decided, just for that day, to reverse the digits and be 35 again. It was a lovely age, and I enjoyed my birthday thoroughly.
Today is not my birthday, and at 71, I am getting to be too old to credibly reverse the digits, even for a day. But I can remember, and honor, my seventeen-year-old self. Here is a sweet little lyric that I wrote when I was 17:
Oh, to walk in the woods late at night,
With the smell of the rain in the air,
With our breaths coming quickly and tight,
And the moon shining brightly and fair.
Oh, to walk, and to talk, and to kiss.
Oh, to want, and to do, and to dare.
Oh, to live in a rapturous bliss,
Without torment, or struggle, or care.
It makes me feel good, just to write it down.
A blog about all the arts, including politics
"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner