44 is the new 43

I “celebrated” my 44th birthday on Monday January 10th, three days after posting a negative Covid test (Co=corona, Vi=virus, D=disease) after being sick with some form of passing through viral ailment since December 9th. Yesterday, January 14th, I spent the day in Indianapolis with a friend who currently lives in Chicago – what  a lovely day. Coffee-talk, philosophy, and a shared adoration of writing and its spiritually vibratory gifts – like walking through walls and consciousnesses and enactments, actualizations, and real-world manifestations of certain occurrences extra-dimensional experiences. The quiet calm of the coffee shop, car, and brisk intermittent Indy air frosting fingers and tearing wind-whipped eyes into time-warped resolution from three bartered years in one day’s relative relativity. Enjoyment makes a prisoner of the moment when the present presents its presence, and the two way mirror can no longer temper its deceptive illusory deceit. And no clearer representation of home’s locationless essence exists while in the round belly of time’s absence: home lives within the unknowing universe. 

Sometimes, after hours of creative engagement, I venture to the Lost and Found behind my apartment. Much to my surprise, the barkeep produces a can of my second favorite non-alcoholic IPA. I relocate to the all-drugs-legal-patio between the two entrances/exits of the establishment. Alone at a four-seat table, I proceed to listen to the silliness of the neighboring table. “…I took two adderall that night…I felt like I was having a seizure…I talk too much as it is…it was hysterical, I listened to people yell, ‘shut the fuck up,’ all night…one of my prouder moments.” “Addrall makes me feel like a normal person….” “I know I’m driving tonight, have you ever seen me drive drunk…I fuckin’ awesome at it!” A girl and a guy in search of a few seats walk past. I inform them my departure is near, and that they are more than welcome to take my oversized one person table and chairs. “Sure, we’ll sit with you.” We exchange formalities: name and blah, they’re on a first date, and I am sitting down. And at this moment I am 44 years old. 

I lean in an attempt to hear what they are saying, but, and I don’t know if my ears just reject whatever information the hot air pushes out of their mouth-holes, I can’t understand a goddamn word either of them says. I finish my beverage, tell them I’ve been married four times, and tell them I think they are going to make it; the guy attempts at a smart-ass comment about my four fictitious ex-wives. I assure they are going to make it because they have between them what I never did. He says, “Dude, remember, this is our first day.” I say, “Precisely…Have a great night…GO BENGALS!!!!” “Go Bengals!” 

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