When I came to live in Atlanta twenty-two years ago whimsey, at least in the houses that knew anything of mural painting, was the rage. Also, twenty-two years ago, it was noticeable the apostrophe led a wandering and confused existence and as to the adverb … well, then as now, the least said about the adverb, the better. Whimsey is long gone from conversations, as are murals from walls, and the apostrophe has settled down to an erratic role of grammatical provocateur beloved of supermarket
… but that's being so horribly sour and I've had enough of that the last three weeks. It seems the run-up to a big birthday can be onerous and debilitating even – so I ask for your indulgence as I head to New York to celebrate with the Celt's genomic sister and her scientist/rock band drummer husband, my sister and brother-in-law from Lancashire and old friends from England long settled in New Jersey. Sunday, besides the Gay Pride Parade, is our second wedding anniversary (still strange to write after nearly thirty-seven years together) for which Atlanta friends are hosting a cocktail party in their newly redecorated New York apartment, and Monday, actually my birthday, we will have dinner at my favourite restaurant. In there somewhere also is a Broadway show and lunches galore. My waistline?
The post began differently but ended where it needed to be. Seemingly I'm stymied by what the Ancients called Melancholia, yet such is the stigma attached to it, especially for men, it's almost comical to me to think about my birthday weekend in terms of convalescence but that is what I hope.
I wonder, should I laugh or cry?