Musings at 32

32 came.

No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. Just how I wished it. And still, I feel empty; lost and devoid of value in a world that defines that value as social status and financial independence. Well, I have financial independence, insofar as I depend on no one else to pay my bills, but not in the sense that I have actual freedom to do as I please with my life - because I can't afford it.

* * *--------------------

September 16th started out well. I woke up, actually left the Cleveland, Ohio apartment that I share with my fiancee', and did stuff. True enough, it was only grocery shopping, but it was needed and it felt good to get out and do it. Also, I managed to treat myself to a few things that, though trivial pleasures, I had sorely missed and enjoyed thoroughly. There was the Meatball sub I had at Quizno's. Then there was the $11 half-pound of prosciutto I bought at Whole Foods, along with some ground lamb sausage that I plan to try in a scramble this weekend.

My favorite discovery was the Ciabatta bread available at the Whole Foods in Warrensville. I had been looking for it (or Focaccia) at Dave's, with no luck and had settled on a Saloio as a replacement, but it really doesn't work as well for me because though it is texturally similar, it is a bit bitterer than the Italian breads.

There were also the downs of the day. There was the older white woman seated at the lunch counter where I waited to place my order for the prosciutto, who promptly closed the large handbag in the chair beside her that she had previously paid no attention to, and moved to the other side of her. This, despite me having my own bag over my shoulder and having both hands full of other items I had picked up in the store, and being dressed much like any artsy white teen on a beach. The difference, of course, was that I am NOT a white teen on a beach, I'm a black man ANYWHERE. Then, there was the finding-out that I was in the wrong line to order the prosciutto in the first place. No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect.

There were also the other white people in the store, the young, thin, hippie liberal women perusing the aisles for skin products, and the middle-aged white women who, when not saving their worldy possessions from me, were getting snippy with the staff. A noteable lack of men in the store, except those who worked there and a pair of (by outward appearances) well-to-do, middle-aged, black men. They weren't together, if you were wondering.

Another "down" came after I left Whole Foods to get back on the bus (I don't own a car in a city that seems to require it). I purposely walked about a quarter mile to a bus stop in a place that looked semi-secluded, where I could read quietly while waiting. The bus benches are in shelters, thanks to Cleveland's notorious winters, and so I sat on the bench, but wishing the bench were out in the elements. It was sunny but cool - around 68 degrees - a perfect day in my book. Then, this cunt of a young woman comes and joins me and lights a cigarette - inside the shelter, which, by the way, is about 6x4. I got part of my wish. I was pushed back into the sunny, cool, 68 degree elements, whereupon two young men and one older gentleman soon arrived at my secluded bus stop, and all lit their own respective smoking implements. No refuge for the lung healthy. No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy.

* * *--------------------

Aside from those happenings, the day went largely well. I got back to the apartment (I took the day off - despite not being able to afford to do so), and my fiancee' came home and surprised me with a carrotcake cupcake (she couldn't afford a strawberry shortcake), and being poor, as we are, had no candles. In place of it was a match, lit by another, and burning fast. She urged me to blow it out as its flame rapidly descended, threatening to set my birthday pastry alight. No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy. No money.

That may sound pretty pathetic, but despite having no money, it's that type of birthday I enjoy; the cupcake, the match in place of the candle, the simplicity. Of course, before I could eat the cupcake (and let me preface this by saying it was my own fault for asking, but how selfish and inconsiderate would I be if I hadn't), Simone' started going into a mini-tirade about what's going on in her family. It is a bad situation, and I wholeheartedly agree with, and feel for, her. But the thing I cherish most on my birthday is isolation and tranquility. Now that I'm in a relationship with someone, isolation is all but ruled out, but tranquility seems to have abandoned me these days as well. The thing I have looked forward to however, now that I'm in a relationship, is sex on my birthday. I suppose it's that primeval man-thing, that even the most educated, erudite, and self-restrained individual man still feels enslaved by. Women can have sex whenever they want. There's always a man ready, willing, able, and available for that. For a man, it's the reverse. Sex is a rare mineral that can only be mined in the perfect confluence of events. Birthdays are supposed to be one of those. Granted, we've been having a lot of sex lately (my fiancee' and I), but still, it's my birthday. Sure, it's a bit inconsistent with my general birthday philosophy, but I'm not completely without conceit. I'm still human - wait, let me check - yep, for now.

32. No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy. No money. No tranquility. No sex.

* * *--------------------

Much of the reason I so virulently abhor birthday celebrations is that they are so narcissistic. So I don't invite others to "celebrate" with me, frankly, I don't "celebrate" myself. Instead, it's usually just a day out of the year, where I forgive any destructive impulses I have as well as reflect upon the nature of my birth and life. My father died and was buried but a week before my tenth birthday, and since then there has been little celebration. Indeed, as I've gotten older, I've become more and more reclusive around my birthday, not telling anyone about it who would be in a position to wish me a happy one when it arrives, etc., and not making myself available to anyone but my mother and fiancee' on that day. However, 32 was different. Though starting fine (but ending differently), I no longer see recognition of my birthday as completely pointless. Now, in addition to the usual life reflections (and chance of sex), I reflect on growing older as, though I'm still quite young, I'm not as young as I was, and I never will be again. With this, I woke up in a sour mood today, and it continues. In 32 years and one day, I can not look back to a single worthwhile accomplishment in my life. No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy. No money. No tranquility. No sex. No accomplishments.

* * *--------------------

I live in Cleveland, Ohio. Let's take a trip back in time to 1995 when I first arrived at Johnson C. Smith University in Charlotte, North Carolina. There I am, hanging out with DJ, Keenan and James in front of my residence hall, staring at the beautiful bodied black women passing by, and talking to others. A couple of them look pretty interested in my past self, but let's see if we can pull me aside for a second. I don't look too disagreeable.

"Hi, Cory? Is it? I'm you from 13 years in the future and I go by Wesley there. Don't look so bewildered. Time travel is routine in my time. Let me just ask you a quick question, then you can get back to masquerading as an aspiring rapper or producer or whatever the hell it is you want to do. Oh, by the way, whatever it is, I can assure you that you haven't figured it out in 2008 either. If a Dr. Majer asks you about studying biology, jump on it. So anyway, the question is, where do you see yourself in 13 years, as of now?"

"I see. That's your answer? Forgive me, but I'm curious, I didn't hear the words Cleveland, or Ohio, or office temp job in there, among other things. I see. Well, of course, why would a rich rapper born and raised in NYC move to Cleveland to work as an office temp? You're right, my question does make little sense. I will take leave of you now." No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy. No money. No tranquility. No sex. No accomplishments. No future.

* * *--------------------

So just what DO I have? Well, to be true, I have quite a lot. I'm healthy, for one. That, in itself, is worth plenty. Next, despite her seemingly remarkably intense pursuit to drive me crazy and into an early grave, I still have my mother. And she truly cares (or seems to) about what happens to me. I have a fiancee' who is equally bent on driving me mad, and she also truly cares about me. I have two brothers who look up to me, despite the fact that they are both fully grown adults in their own right. I suppose I should be happy for that. I am, but I need more. I want more. And that is not selfishness. That is the desire of every thinking free man - to be a contributor to the world he lives in and I have not achieved that. Or anything else. In many cases I have been denied the opportunity. In others I have slacked. In others, I have been given a chance and worked hard, and failed. I don't blame the universe (wholly), but I do lament 32 years of nothing - even in (especially in) cases where I have given my all. From where I sit, I have no prospects for the next 32, making for (what will then be) 64 years of futility. My father died at 62. He thought his legacy would be me.

No pomp. No circumstance. No celebration. No respect. No courtesy. No money. No tranquility. No sex. No accomplishments. No future. No legacy.

No memory of my existence.

A social security number. Tax records. Statistical data to be collated by some computer of the future.

Letters and numbers on a headstone.

The measure of a man.