This morning while dropping my kids off at school, it occurred to me that California is now my home. I’ve lived here longer than I’ve lived anywhere else.
I spent seventeen years on the east coast, interrupted by five years as a kid in Holland. Meanwhile, my California experience will hit nineteen years this coming July.
Oh, I’ve been keeping one eye out for the “when will I have spent half my life out here?” milestone — it’s waving at me from about 3 years down the road. But this subtler calendar-flip slipped past me in the night.
If I was super-dooper rich, I think I would hire someone to scan my personal numerology, looking for just this sort of Highly Significant Moment.
“Mr. Vortex, did you know that your heart has now beaten more times than a bumblebee’s wings will flap, using standard bumblebee life expectancy charts and such?”
“Thank you, Harold.”
“Also, if all the work emails you’ve sent were compiled into one document, it would be eight times longer than Finnegan’s Wake.”
“That’s fascinating, Harold. Here’s a gold doubloon with my face on it.”
So well said. I love that you’ve made the prosaic into poetry. Thank you.
1986 I’d been in the US for as long as I’d been out of it. (I still count Hawai’i as a territory, not a real part of this hissing snake pile.) I am older than my parents were when they brought us here. My father hit rock bottom as a younger man than I am now. (I’m still digging.)
On Jul 14 last year I’d been with my love longer than we’ve been apart. This year in June I’ll have known her longer than not. But as she’s younger than I, she’s already hit those points.
Feb 10th, 2030 I’ll have been a father longer than I was childless.
2038 I’ll have lived more of my life in the 21st century than the 20th.
I’ve already wiped my butt with more paper than it took Joyce to compose everything he ever wrote.
And all this means. . . ? This planet has had about 4 billion years since it was born. It has about another 4 billion until it’s incinerated. So let’s say that May 17th, 2013 is the exact halfway point and have a big, big, BIG party.
You know, I lived in California from ages 10 to 38, and once I left, the small sense of place I’d managed to accumulate there just washed away. Could be me, or a symptom of moving away from any old where. But I think there’s something in there too about the transient soul of California, where the native-born are rare as hen’s teeth and the door’s been revolving since the Gold Rush.
Living on earth is hell…I have lived here now longer than I can remember…Living on a prayer seems way back there…1/2 my life now trying to forget Bon Jovi and spending those years just missing him at the same 7/11…hell i tell you…1/2 life, radioactive heavy metal for at least 2/3 black berry brandy…ya know?
for the longest time, my number was three. i would glance at the clock to check the time, and sure enough, the numbers would add up to 3, e.g., 12:00, or 4:26 = 4+2+6=12, and 1+2=3. my life made sense.
then, after i had my first child, i decided my number was 8, making the curves on 3 whole, a proud upright infinity sign. my legacy guarantees my infinity. now, when i glance at the clock, i see 8s, e.g,. 4:22, 4+2+2=8. and, my life continues to make sense.
rk–agreed. i visited california twice, for twenty-five years.