Sunday, January 13, 2013


I am physically present in a society I have very little regard for. I am a prisoner of a tribe of people who call themselves "Canadian."

In my own mind and, to a large degree, habits, I have divorced myself from this society and with it a long list of traditional and cultural subscriptions: Marriage, birthdays, commercial Christmas, economic and vehicular entitlement, wealth and reputation mongering, etcetera.

An arbitrary calendar feature reared its head recently which makes me 44 and subject to being fussed over according to the great flock.

Being physically present here, and being humble and quiet with regards to my hard-earned poetic insights, people don't tend to remember certain things that I say - such as "I do not subscribe to the birthday tradition."

It also doesn't help that I sometimes participate in birthday celebrations in precisely the same manner that a Jew might participate in a Christian church celebration on the occasion his close Christian friend is getting married. Subscription and choice are two different things. I try to remind birthdayers that this is the circumstance by giving them cards that don't actually use the word "birthday." Usually I adapt blank cards. One of my personal faves featured a wolf on the front. "Sorry to hear about your lycanthropy," I wrote. "Get well soon."

[Editor's note: Lycanthropy has to do with being a werewolf.]

Anyway -- none of this is a problem. It's just a reminder that I spend too much time with people who don't understand me. But then - it's up to me to educate - isn't it?

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