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barton cole :: veni, vedi, vero scripsi
 Monday, January 05, 2009
Today is my birthday.
I had a dream just before I woke up; I was out in the yard by the birdfeeder. It was dim light, nearly dark. I heard a double-thump, which I thought I recognized as the sound of both ends of a deer hitting the ground, having jumped over the fence. I was looking for it, and spotted it discreetly hanging out by the garden fence. There was a section of wooden fence a couple of feet outside the fence, and it was discreetly behind that, too (the wooden fence was in the dream; I don't have such a thing near my garden in waking life). I didn't go over to it, preferring, generally, to experience nature from a respectful distance, but said something soft to it.
And then I saw, coming out from under the grape vines, a little fawn. Wrong time of year for a fawn, I thought. And this was the smallest fawn ever - as big as a Chihuahua - and pulling its umbilicus behind it. The fawn was curious and coming over to me.
But wait - there was a threat - up in the threadbare pine from which the birdfeeder hangs was a large cat, which began to walk along the top of the fence, in that low-to-the-ground way that makes them seem so clandestine.
And it was a big cat - like a lynx, or bobcat.
And then I woke.
I'm not generally a dreamer -- no doubt I do dream, but there's rarely anything fresh in the archives when I wake -- so I'm willing to consider this one auspicious.
Please don't feel like you need to send felicitations; I like to keep it low-key. In fact, that's been frustrating my wife, who's been pestering me to find out what I want to do, what I want for dinner, do I even want any presents?
For me, it's complicated. One of my old slogans is, "No sympathy, no praise." I'd rather be sort of invisible, and hang out in the woods with the flickers, the Douglas Squirrels, the ravens, the crows… and since I was the youngest of four kids, frequently regarded as the mascot or the toy, I definitely learned how to be invisible. I used to disappear into the woods as a kid, even. Still do, when I can. I just don't like to call attention to myself.
But even that confuses my intimates, since I'm an actor. I get onstage, and everyone in the room can see me; the lights are so bright, I can't see them, but they can see me. How does one reconcile that? Being highly visible, for someone who professes to prefer invisibility?
Simple. The guy onstage isn't me. He's whatever character I happen to be playing. Once, even, the actress who played my love-interest asked my young son (he was about ten), "How does it feel to see me kissing your dad?"
"You're not kissing my dad," he replied, "you're kissing Freddy the Bartender!"
This year, I would almost have opted to let the whole birthday thing go, but I tried that once, and it doesn't work:
I turned nineteen, some years ago, and decided I would keep it to myself. I don't know why, something grown up about it? Early-onset intentional jaded lad? But I was content, and smug, knowing that I had this little secret: it was my birthday, and I was the only one who knew.
I finished work that day, and as usual, went over to a friend's house to hang out.
It was a big house, and a bunch of guys lived there, so it was a routine hang-out. We'd muster there, smoke some dope, drink some beer, listen to records, or, in this case, we were watching television.
How ironic: it was a M*A*S*H re-run - remember that show? And the asshole doctor, Frank Burns, was having a birthday. It was a funny episode, and almost made me spill the beans during a commercial break. "Hey guys, guess what?" But I kept it to myself.
And then a friend came over, a girl I was close to - "There you are!" she said. "I've been looking for you everywhere! Happy birthday!"
It was a big surprise to all my chums, who made much of me sharing a birthday with Frank Burns.
So I learned then, and told my wife yesterday, that you can't put dynamite in a garbage can and not expect the lid to get blown off. When it's your birthday, the energy can't really be contained and hidden.
But I don't want a big deal made of it, you know? I'd prefer it if my wife didn't tell her friends, or anything like that, since I just want to have it to myself, and with my closest intimates: her, my son, my daughter, my cat. A few others, perhaps, but from a distance.
No guests for dinner.
And what's for dinner?
That was hard, too - I have a notorious passion for food (I used to be well-paid to play with food, having been a chef - it's true, I was a chef, and not a mere cook, but actually the executive chef in a French restaurant); you should see me try to decide what to order in a restaurant. I finally have to practically pick something out with a blind finger, like selecting a number from the phone book to make a prank call. So how am I going to decide what I want for dinner?
[going out to eat isn't much of an option - all those years in commercial kitchens make eating out not so easy, unless I know the chef has a fondness for the classics as I do]
And I don't want to pressure my wife or my kids into trying to execute some favorite dish like cassoulet, or braised chops, or anything like that, so what to do?
Finally, I hit on it - being a High Priest in the Church of the Sandwich - we're going to have my old favorite, Reuben sandwiches. When I told my wife this, "Hey, I know! - " my son said from the other room, "Good choice, Dad."
For dessert? I can't decide. "You get something you'll like, and I'll enjoy it," I said.
Really, I find it surprising that she thinks my whole attitude about this is kind of pathological. I just want to be low-key.
But it's my birthday - so the constellations will be in the pattern they were in when I entered the world, and I'll think of my mother, who died soon after my third birthday (she was the writer, which is partly why I write), and I'll remember other birthdays - my seventeenth, when my estranged girlfriend from another city took me to see a movie, and I was so despondent those days, I was doing a lot of drugs, so I ate a bunch of hash while we stood in line after buying our tickets waiting to see the feature - which was Apocalypse Now - an excellent film to see in my hashish condition.
And my forty-first birthday, the day before I flew to Germany and somehow landed safely in Hamburg while there were hurricane winds. Many others, too -- mostly all memorable, and few of them even remotely disappointing.
One thing is for certain - I won't be working on my birthday - I never have. Even when I was a boy, eleven-years-old and with a paper route, I trained a buddy to deliver my papers - since it was my birthday. I've never worked on my birthday (although my wife was getting so frustrated with my down-playing the thing that she finally said, "Why don't you just work, then, since it's such a no-big-deal?" - I turned and tried to glare at her: "What did you just say?").
But happy birthday to me, and happy birthday to Umberto Eco (the writer), and Hayao Miyazaki (the animator), and Robert Duvall (the actor)… and anyone else who is fortunate to have been born on the fifth day of the year. We're special - but in my case, I'll try to keep it to myself (yeah, right, I'm only writing about it on the WorldWideWeb...).
If you wanted to do anything to honor my birthday, spend some time outside. Feed the birds. Learn the name of one of your local trees. Marvel at the crows. That's what I'm likely to be doing, as I do whenever possible. Let's be outside in the world together, under the same stars, no matter where we are.
The constellations have wheeled around to the configuration they had the day I arrived on this planet; let's gaze at them and make up new stories.
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