How I Spent My Birthday

Last night, the twins took me out to eat at the reservations-only Guatemalan restaurant.  I had been wanting to go for some time.  I skipped church that morning because I knew my cusp-of-two-signs birthday would be mentioned in the bulletin and I try to forget my birthday and did not want to be reminded of it.  I told the twins that I was going to spend the next day reading David Copperfield and The Nonviolent Atonement, and disconnecting the phone.

Fate willed that someone from church, the chair of the Colombia committee, also came to the restaurant and came over to wish me happy birthday.  "You want to make God laugh?" I said.  "Tell her your plans."

I slept in late, waking at 5:50 a.m.  In the silent dawn, I made coffee, took notes, performed the ritual reading of the New York Times.

I meditated.

In the hammock, I read more of The Forest of Kings, the Mayan archeological study with pages and pages of images, trying to choose which symbols I would choose for my tattoo.  I also read the Mayan issue of National Geographic, which directly furthers the study in the book.  The emissary from Teotihuacan who conquered the Maya, Smoking Frog, for example, should really be named Fire is Born.  Earlier last week, I had been writing about the time Henry and I sat atop the Pyramid of the Sun.  In the NG maps, I calculated the area where I have spent days, where the current Mayan villages in the Yucatan were, and recalled the Mayan ruins not on any map that I had managed to visit, being led by mud-hut Mayans.

I have stopped wearing a watch, so when the sun rose to a certain degree, I prepared for my ritualistic drive through the sacred corn fields.  On the way, I stopped by the DVD rental store to get Chris Marker's films, La Jetee and Sans Soleil, having become impatient for Netflix.  As I left, the clerk -- someone I did not know -- said, "By the way, happy birthday."  It must have been in their computer system.

There was a card from my district manager waiting for me in St. Joseph.  It was written in (bad) Spanish and included a $2 bill.  Another surprise.

The weather was perfect.  The countryside, the mazes of corn -- walls of corn on either side of the narrow country roads -- a sort of perfection of infinity.

I thought I might watch parts of The Fountain and Apocalypto in the evening, to see more Mayan imagery.

At Mrs. Schumaker's house, I always hand deliver a newspaper.  She was waiting for me with a large, homemade, criss-cross crusted, candle bearing, beautiful rhubarb pie.  "How did you know?"  I asked.  She had remembered from years ago apparently.  Rhubarb is my favorite.  She knew this as well.

Once home, I got mail from a syndicated columnist thanking me for informing me that the News-Gazette had inserted a paragraph promoting Champaign-Urbana into his column.  It was in tonight's paper and I wrote him and he replied quickly.  "This is not Kosher," he wrote.  The Gazette will probably try to fire me... again.  I've been fired three times from the newspaper so far. 

But I cannot help being outside of society.  It is my nature.  I cannot play the game.  I have to be what I am.

I meditated.

Back in the hammock, filled with pie and chocolate, I read portions of Blossom of Bone ("Reclaiming the Connections between Homoeroticism and the Sacred"), about the various two-spirit beings in cultures throughout history and their role in religion and sacredness. As Oscar Wilde wrote in De Profundis, "The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in Nature -- this is what I am looking for.  It is absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere."  Or, as Gore Vidal wrote, "I live no longer in the usual world.  I have forsaken the familiar."

Henry chatted with me via Gmail.  We talked about tattoos.

Ernie called.  We talked about tattoos.

For all my attempts to avoid the phone, it has not been possible.  Just as I was returning to the hammock, the phone rang again from an unfamiliar number.  I nearly shouted downstairs, if it is for me, I am not here.  But I picked it up nonetheless, thinking it was probably for Miles.

It was Israel, the pastor in Colombia. He sang Happy Birthday, in English, and I was glad.  One never says simply "Goodbye" to Israel or anyone from Colombia.  Their goodbye is an intense ritualistic sequence of bear hugs, blessings, salutations to be sent, and -- should the conversation continue past the point of these farewells -- it becomes necessary to do it all over again.

Darkness has now set in, since the time I started writing this.  I will look again at the symbols and discern what tattoos I might choose -- one for each son (and each son wants to bear the same symbol on his own skin), one that may symbolize the mystical and Christ, maybe one that stands for "Dad" alone, because today in the country it seemed that, for maybe the first time, I felt competent to own the designation, something seemed real about this skin, I don't know.

I am 58.