Birthdays, bikes and beautiful things

Tis strange that every year one particular day should mark our passing through, our growing older, wiser perhaps. More trapped in our routines? Well we celebrated María José's birthday this evening, eating far too much italian food (but ending with a cannoli which is always a good way to end things). Of course it is not her birthday today, although it occurs to me that it is the birthday of my first (requited - sort of) teenage love (that is, one of whom we would swoon and say "¡ay es el amor de mi vida!"). Why do I remember such things? Well strangely tomorrow, the 16th is the birthday of my first (very) Catholic boyfriend (prior to Leo by a little over a year) and that was easy to remember because it was exactly three months before my very own aniversaire... such coincidences are seldom ignored by a connection-making fiend such as myself.

Now the story of Mike was a story of convenience, one that may indeed be reworked into some marvelously fictive episode in forthcoming short stories (when I get to the memoirs he will be referred back to with regards to the "immaculate conception" episode... ah but I am getting ahead of myself. hee hee. Ok, guess I am the only one whose humor stoops to such guttural depths. (oh, I kill myself, but then, maybe it is only funny to me because I know what happens at the end;)

Indeed. And so I was saying. Today we celebrated because Mariajo, sevillana of my heart, chatterbox and general good-cheer provider, is leaving in the night for Mérida, México. Of course this means that I will be driving the six hours to Becca's by myself instead of with adult company, but I think I am more envious that she is going to see Izamal and Valladolid and all of the enchanting places, littered with musical rocks and seats that the Pope sat in, and scrappy dogs and snarky stray cats and tacos de marisco. Sigh. At least I get to spend the weekend in Mexico, albeit the opposite corner.

Today was a day like the kind we are promised when moving to (sunny, but you wouldn't know it) so cal... It made me feel like life is full of promise, that every day will be as beautiful as this one, that even in sadness and dissappointment, frustration and unfulfillment, if I just breath deeply, inhaling the perfumes, and hiking up my skirt, tucking it once again into the corners of my (today silky) underwear and ride cutting through the breeze, life is not half bad. I still feel the tug, especially after the sun goes down, the wandering bug that makes me want to leave... But if the days are beautiful and I can see the moon through the clear night, if I can feel the compression of my lungs as I breath, as I gaze under the stars... If I can create a thing of beauty, or even just find it, possess it, hold it in my hands... will this feeling go away?