I'm 36. Good god, 36. 35 was an unhealthy year, but mostly a happy one. Most of it in Venice, and that's been a great joy. Doing two plays, learning to surf. A fine year, really - though for maybe the first time ever I'm feeling my age.
I'm so tired right now - tired because a bunch of good friends trooped out to the drunken spelling bee last night. It was incredibly crowded, and moved too slowly, so despite the fact that I advanced to the quarter-finals, we left in search of a good drink. Which we found, after much wandering, at a non-descript but charming dive bar in Hollywood. We passed trannies and at least a hundred people on bicycles, many of them calling out "get a bike!" as we walked past. Up today and chatting with the neighbors, then off to the movies. Game tonight- busy all day, and prodigiously tired right now.
But coming home I looked for shooting stars. There's so many lights out on the streets, I had to go down by the beach in front of my building to watch. I leaned up against the wall out front, and looked up at the sky. Incongrously, some folks down on the beach shot off fireworks, and the cloud of gunpowder smoke drifted up and away very lazily in the nearly windless night. I thought I saw a shooting star, but actually it was a magnificent owl, flitting by, lit from underneath by the streetlights. The Pacific was pounding, loud and strong - no off-shore breeze to flatten the waves - tall crests, crashes, crests again, crashes. Then, just every so faintly, barely visible at all - a falling star.
If the sky is a portent, then this year there will be celebration (fireworks) and health and wisdom (the owl) - but if God is crying, his tears are very faint, and very far away.
I have the highest of hopes. 36. I'm so tired now. I'll sleep.