Last year, I was in a foreign country for my birthday and all my lovers past, ex, future, and present found a way to call me up or reach me through email to wish me well. I thought the best of it that through it all, all of these beautiful people still loved me and they were still cheering me on as I moved forward. There was none of the old possessiveness in their greetings and surely none of the bad vibes where we had left off. But also in the back of my mind was this simple question of why now? what was so special about reaching out to me now? and why all of them seemingly in unison? were they all somehow talking to each other about me and devising a plan for me for when I returned back home? I think it’s also important to note, I was in this foreign country to retap my connection with the muse which I had found there several years before and one of the lessons she taught me on this trip was that, though she is extremely present for me in Europe and travel in general, there are all kinds of muses and she can become present in all sorts of close formed connections with others, especially in the case of love, both physical and emotional, but mostly in the bonds that are shared with two collaborators who spend time creating a world together.
My response to this theme of exes for my 27th was at first, of course happiness and even some ego-centric joy. All of these beautiful women had chosen to think of me collectively on the same day. But as more and more of them sent me texts and emails and Instagram comments and Facebook messages and telegrams and pidgeon-expresses and bike messengers and tv ads and dream manipulations, some I hadn’t spoken to in years and others who I didn’t even really know yet and hadn’t shared more than two words with, and as I became more aware of how far away I was from home and how foreign this land really was to me, my thoughts quickly turned to paranoia. Were all of these loves of my life now standing together at the edge of my funeral wishing me their happiest wishes, standing over my grave and tossing flowers into it? Were they all drawn to me unconsciously because I was about to die?
27 is a very vulnerable year for conspiracy theorists and people that notice patterns. If you are following a creative career, it is the year that you are meant to reach the top of your genius and then die a dramatic death. Usually a heroin overdose if you’re a pop star. Or something like sinking into the Mediterranean Sea on a small sailboat, if your pursuits are more poetic. I wasn’t looking forward to either options and as a result I had redirected my energy to slow down my success rate and make it more safe-feeling, not taking any leaps of faith or associating too much with the “bad” crowd, which had already made me feel as if I were slowly floating deeper down into the dregs as my own poetic voice got clearer.
But did all these women know something, I didn’t? Add to that, that my birthday lands on the spring equinox and you got all sorts of beautiful poetry in the air during that time. Every year it’s chock full of a whole lot of death and rebirth energy as winter takes it’s leave and the birds begin again to chirp in the morning sun. It’s like a second new year for me, and if we had stuck to our pagan roots it’d be the new year for us all. Only my birthday would be the first day of that new cycle. People have actually told me I am an infant before, and I agree with them. But I was delivered through C-section, I think because my mind wasn’t ready to come out on the other end of the spectrum, that old soul just about at the end of it’s life stuck in an infinite loop of ending. I wanted to be that baby. I wanted to see the world through new juvenile eyes. And sometimes be naïve. And see magic and poetry where sometimes it’s just a coincidence.
So what about all these lost loves? Coincidence or not, what drew them all towards me at the same time? Well, currently I have made it through 27 and survived. Their intimate greetings were not a death sentence. Instead they worked as a further lesson that love can continue after all the shit, and the stormy weather, or the connection breaking and just not working anymore. It changes form many times and sometimes you just got to relax and let time heal its wounds. Sometimes it’s best to sit back and admire how beautiful a year can be.
Anyway, I have entered 28. The time-mapping for the year has fallen into place. Much more love awaits. Journeys and other opportunities. And I see myself climbing many more mountains awaiting the perfect sunset or even better, an immaculate sunrise. Oh and sure there will be loneliness, heart break, and sadness too. Many challenges for me to overcome. But my spring optimism has always served me well in the past. Good things and many wanderings. I have a sense of self that continues to grow more stable.
But again, what about all those women? This year, the phone calls and private messages and other good tidings were made up of mostly my friends and family from around the country (and some from around the world). Travel partners new and old. And my heart has certainly been in a different place, focused more on that inner muse, as well as working towards serving all and not just one, while still maintaining a healthy relationship with my own body as it quickly grows out. I have maybe lost my mind for the last time a long while ago. And my heart opens further as I listen to it with a better ear. Needless to say, I was happy that most of those women forgot me this year. Or if they remembered me, I wasn’t as alarmed by their greetings. It didn’t seem as pertinent. I still feel closer to them perhaps more so than when we spent our time together. I’ve seen them again and caught up or watched their lives grow from a comfortable distance or maybe I haven’t again heard from them at all, but this time it’s not out of fear but out of being mostly relaxed. It has been my turn for a long time to wish them well and encourage their journeys forward. And my desire for over a year now has been to become a muse to the muse, and make that energy cycle finally complete, all rebirth and all creative labors, no more destruction if it can be helped. And I do so now, as well as in all of my writing. To the muse, all of you, thank you. Friends and festivities now commence.
The Life and Works of Marshall James Kavanaugh 