My sixty-seventh birthday in September. A few other people in the loose bubble I call “my crowd” also have September birthdays. One of them will premier a new show that month. Therefore, the party needs to happen early in the month. Party? I’ve decided to hold one.
Simple? Please. Let’s start with venue. My place: not suited to the kind of vigorous singing and dancing that often break out when several people decide they’ve had enough sitting around. Who to invite? Everybody, and let the dice roll and fall as they want. A lot of snip-snip amongst the crowd. You talk with this one means you’re against that other one. Or you go on seeing both parties in a messy estrangement: who can trust you? Or: you refuse to let somebody’s bad mood (or your own) define once and for all who and what the person’s all about.
Crowds. In fact, circles upon circles, some with overlap, some without. At the moment, I seem to be persona non grata with someone who was all smiles with me only a few weeks ago. Someone else who’d been ignoring me with pointed deliberation decided I’d survived her personal litmus test. And so on.
Who will show up at the party in September. Which of the couples will have broken up or reconciled? Who will be those who’ll have vowed to never, ever, ever be on speaking terms again? Who will be the new kid in town, trying to read the signals and understand the jokes?
Last night, after keeping a promise to myself, I sent one of my sisters the Swimming Song by The McGarrigle Sisters. What will happen to the parcel I mailed; how it will be received. I’ll know when it gets there. In the meantime, I’ll go on singing the Swimming Song, and work at failing better with a new story than I did with the previous one.
In case anyone hasn’t figured it out yet: I’m one hell of a stubborn donkey. One among several of my most endearing traits.