May is incoming and with it descends the mantle of a landmark age. I am about to reach that double-digit status that as teenagers we regarded as one step short of the grave, property of the grim reaper and why bother anymore "It's all over now Baby Blue." Drop ‘em in the kill zone, “Logan’s Run” for geriatrics. 40 was tragic, 50 was ancient but 60 was as turgid, humorless and incomprehensible as Wagnerian opera.

Naturally I no longer subscribe to this view albeit the Wagner reference which still stands. I once begged on hand and knee to be released from suffering through the second half of “Tristan & Isolde.” 4 hours of depressing Germanic oafs endlessly repeating how they’ll die without each other is neither stimulating nor fun. What’s sadder however is that none of them seem to die soon enough. Don’t misunderstand me I love my opera but not when it comes imbedded with constant misery in grim damp netherworlds inhabited by unsettling characters many who perform with headgear better suited to “Spongebob Squarepants.”

Right, sort of drifted off track there so back to 60. Well it’s great, love it. Sure there are a few areas where the engine isn’t blasting you down the centerfield all-limber and panther like. The gazelle is not nearly as forthcoming in terms of well-oiled machinery and granted there are a few creaky bits developing in places well hammered over the years by devotion to the saddle. But all in all the mental side of things is celebrating a rejuvenation of sorts, a constant wonderment in all things inspirational and spiritual that was sorely lacking in my youth. Where the body slows down the mind picks up the slack and creates the ability to ingest more worthwhile information. To put it simply without getting personal, life is just so much more fun now on every level.

I used to believe that contentment was a sign of giving up. I’ve since reconfigured that thought and attached an amendment. Contentment is a state of mind that can be enjoyed irregardless of retirement or redundant behavior. It can be experienced while witnessing your greatest artistic rebirth, adventure in every sense of the word and learning that comfort is in the eye of the beholder. Without hope we cannot dream.

So as I attain this mythical age where it was once presumed to be all down hill I’d like to throw a little something your way that cannot be found anyplace else. A couple of years back I was approached to contribute to a volume of short stories, the idea of which was to set them around or to be inspired by a song of your choosing. I accepted but preferred to write the story first and see what song it resembled on completion feeling that any out side influence might be constricting. Sadly as is so with many things the book never materialized, a shame as I was in fine company with the likes of Joyce Carol Oats and others of her ilk.

So as a reverse birthday gift of sorts to those who check in and check me out I would like to offer it up here rather then see it languish in some publishing Gulag. I present it with all humility, it’s not Angela Carter but it’s simply what tumbled from my otherworldly and weird dome. Oh, what song did I decide to attach to it? David Bowie’s “Cha-cha-cha-cha-changes,” believe me it was all I could think of. Enjoy and see you up around the bend.

Read the short story here.

 

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