9...

9 is 9 or 9

A birthday letter written to Sir Ian Arthur Blum

As wine is inclined to refine the fine line between the equine on the Rhine and the brine found when you dine, it also encourages a Congo line that smells nothing like Georgia Pine and endures the tine of a certain utensil when you dine.  I don’t expect your face to shine when receiving this, for it’s not Tarzan on a vine nor John Frances Appleby tying his twine.  In fact, you may whine for it’s not beer in a stein but that’s fine, because this is now yours, not mine.  As your friend and subject of a future shrine, I would not only go to the Mason Dixon Line or the International Date Line risking a speeding fine, I would climb a Sierra Lodgepole Line, endure an electromagnetic delay line, risk my personal credit line, and stand in an employment line, for you buddy.  I may not be Chris Pine and provide an Enterprise for you, but I did work there, rain or shine.  My powers aren’t divine nor as unique as the acoustic delay line in Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line” or “Boy with a Coin” by Iron and Wine.

You are the backbone of America’s Heartland - nein, the spine.  Without it, there would be no roads to assign a sign warning us to watch out for crossing swine.  There would be no sewer line, or it would only intertwine less orderly than an alkaline assembly line for batteries that are being made for ine (Institute of Neuromorphic Engineering).  You could say you are the sine, or even the cosine for the structure of our modern society, to not agree is malign.  To combine both thine state of mind from the first paragraph’s first line about wine with a number I will decline to let shine for it’s as explosive as a naval mine and as bright as a rock found in a Nunavut mine, I will resign this letter and resign my writing to this fate of mine, that the only number one greater than eight has become your destiny, for the stars will align and you will be the benign ruler of billions, after your twenty-seven-year tradition in celebrating birth, twenty-one days before mine.

 

Your copain, Stevennea, IX

 

It's a...

It's a Celebration!

Ah yes, celebration!  The dictionary’s definition of celebration is as follows:

cel⋅e⋅bra⋅tion  [sel-uh-brey-shuhn] –noun

1. an act of celebrating.

Um, well that doesn’t really help us much.  As with many words or topics in this world, we all have our own definition.  It relies on interpretation and perspective; but also what dash on your life’s timeline you are at.  As a young child I remember receiving toys at certain times of the year, not really knowing or caring why.  As a teenager I began to appreciate receiving these gifts because I knew why we were celebrating; but because my interests changed so frequently I was never able to appreciate the tangible gifts to their fullest deserving.  Once I left home, I learned I didn’t really want these tangible gifts because I felt I didn’t deserve them.  Now we’re getting older and realizing it’s not us that matters, it’s those who are giving us these gifts that really matter.  It matters to them that you appreciate their thoughtfulness no matter how useless or ugly the gift is.  Now we’ll get older and we will be the ones doing most of the giving; and the roles then become reversed.  Our whole life will be revolved around giving to others and enjoying their reactions to the useless/ugly items you give them.  Finally, we will grow out of that stage and become numb to the idea of giving and receiving, it’s a time we all hope will be spent with loved ones who can give you a gift without involving tangible items or even written words.

I have had the privilege of witnessing births, weddings, anniversaries, graduations, birthdays, and sadly, deaths, in the past year; and I expect to witness all those again as my friends and family reach pivotal points in their lives.

Why don’t we begin with our favorite annual celebration that recognizes the amount of life we’ve lived since our birth…