Good morning! Today marks the 24th anniversary date of the day in which my mother popped me out. I was a fat baby twenty four years ago. Today I am a rather slim young man. Not too much has changed between then and now. The sky is still blue and the sun still shines. The Earth is rotating on its axis, flying and dancing around our average star which is merely ninety million miles away. I’ve seen the Earth do just this twenty four times now. So no, not much as truly changed between now and then.
I tend to like existing. It continues to happen every year. My ego considers it a good thing. Me and my ego agree. We have many things in common and tend to agree often. At times I think we are inseparable — my ego and I, that is. Yet just like everything else, I know my ego is just as temporary as this body. The energy which composes the atoms which compose me will one day find a better thing to do than conglomerate into the deranged creative conspiracy that is me, that is conveniently labeled under the umbrella term, “Tylor J. Mintz”.
I have either the curse or the gift of being what one may call a poet — and we poet’s tend to romanticize such things as ‘spirit’ and ‘soul’ and exaggerate upon their relevance. I am feeling rather pragmatic on the anniversary of my 24th year upon this fine, blue little planet, and so I will instead romanticize the Ego — a psychological umbrella term ushered in by the great Sigmund Freud. May Mr. Freud’s cocaine debts forever be paid and repaid on into infinity! His genius insights have excited the minds of many, from those interested in psychoanalysis and the nature of the mind to those whom are merely creative, seemingly stimulated by such ideas as ego, super-ego and the ID. I count myself among the many stimulated.
However, this is not to say that spirit and soul are untenable objects, beyond my reach (though they probably are). Everyone seems to have slightly different definitions of these words, so I will define them for the sake of clarity: Spirit is the momentum and greatness of one’s passion. Soul is a thing for which language fails to communicate its true nature — it is the Self that you truly are beneath your surface identity. Your personality is not your Soul, but is more likely to be your ego’s fashion style. If someone compliments you on your personality, they are actually only complimenting you in regards to your ego’s fancy dress or well-ironed suit. As for the ego itself? Merely the clown nose for the Soul! The Soul is deeper, more to the roots of a human being, that ever strange conglomeration of atoms. An additional note: My clown nose is rather bulbous and red today, it seems. So it often happens upon 24th anniversaries ’round the sun.
What else, what else? I am listening to Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor. Still as great as ever. John Coltrane, still great. Bob Dylan, still great. AC/DC, not as great as when I was under going my ninth trip ’round the sun, but it’s still some pretty damn good rock ‘n’ roll, if I say so myself.
The taste of black coffee?
Still the best.
The received love of my loved ones?
Ever more, I am blessed.
It is only fitting for a poet to end a writing with a little rhythm and rhyme…
It is my 24th anniversary around the Sun,
an average sphere of gas and plasma,
which some tiny creatures upon Earth are wont to call, ‘divine’.
The Earth is blue, watery and fine,
located in a distant corner of one
of the trillions & trillions of galaxies
swirling ’round in an infinite Universe of space-time.
And the alarm bell is ringing for me to get to work,
No more fooling around, I’ve done run out of time!
It is the dawn of my 24th year ’round the sun.
Ain’t it sublime?