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Thirty-eight
Apr. 28th, 2010 08:28 pmI remember discussing the movie 2010 with my science fiction teacher in high school, the late great Mr. Wentworth, and figuring out how old I would be when 2010 rolled around. 38 seemed incalculably far away — not old, not really, but completely out of the realm of imagination and prediction, more than twice the length of time I'd been alive already. It was the sort of milestone I felt I could stash in the back of my mind and not ever have to think about again.
My birthday on Monday was therefore a little stressful — the end of the longest road I could possibly visualize at 17, and therefore (it seemed) the end of youth, or the time by which I should have some stack of accomplishments. I usually cling to my novel, unproven though it is, when those nagging doubts arise, but Saturday was my last good session of writing; since then I've been flailing. I know this is short-term, and can probably be laid at the doorstep of the weird sickness I've been saddled with (featuring extreme weariness and difficulty concentrating), but I'm desperate to start justifying my existence again. When I'm not writing well, my whole life starts looking shaky.
All that said, my birthday celebrations were in fact more or less pleasant. On Sunday,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adfamiliares and I went hiking for the first time in Blue Hills, half an hour south, which are not quite Acadia but are really quite pretty and soothing and isolated. For dinner, I was eager to try Posto, the brand new "authentically Italian" pizzeria in Davis Square, offering white anchovy pizza and crispy pigs' ears and burrata, but they were crowded, and we didn't have a reservation; rather than wait forty minutes, we punted and went to Redbones. I got a couple of hours of writing-work done in Diesel (revelations experienced: San Rocco; the painting of the Assumption), then snuggled with flammifera until they kicked us out at 11:00. I ended up missing the 66 by thirty seconds and walking from Harvard Square to Allston — a half hour walk, enlivened by 80s music. On Monday, I got birthday cake at work, and then adfamiliares showered me with additional cake and presents, including the new The Apples in Stereo CD, a celtic-knot barrette made from guitar strings, and a lovely red-and-orange summer shirt that I'll wear as soon as the temperature inches above 50° again.
My birthday on Monday was therefore a little stressful — the end of the longest road I could possibly visualize at 17, and therefore (it seemed) the end of youth, or the time by which I should have some stack of accomplishments. I usually cling to my novel, unproven though it is, when those nagging doubts arise, but Saturday was my last good session of writing; since then I've been flailing. I know this is short-term, and can probably be laid at the doorstep of the weird sickness I've been saddled with (featuring extreme weariness and difficulty concentrating), but I'm desperate to start justifying my existence again. When I'm not writing well, my whole life starts looking shaky.
All that said, my birthday celebrations were in fact more or less pleasant. On Sunday,
adfamiliares and I went hiking for the first time in Blue Hills, half an hour south, which are not quite Acadia but are really quite pretty and soothing and isolated. For dinner, I was eager to try Posto, the brand new "authentically Italian" pizzeria in Davis Square, offering white anchovy pizza and crispy pigs' ears and burrata, but they were crowded, and we didn't have a reservation; rather than wait forty minutes, we punted and went to Redbones. I got a couple of hours of writing-work done in Diesel (revelations experienced: San Rocco; the painting of the Assumption), then snuggled with flammifera until they kicked us out at 11:00. I ended up missing the 66 by thirty seconds and walking from Harvard Square to Allston — a half hour walk, enlivened by 80s music. On Monday, I got birthday cake at work, and then adfamiliares showered me with additional cake and presents, including the new The Apples in Stereo CD, a celtic-knot barrette made from guitar strings, and a lovely red-and-orange summer shirt that I'll wear as soon as the temperature inches above 50° again.
