I Shall Wear My Trousers Rolled

 

Today I turn 45, and I am consumed with images of sharp geometry.  I live in denial about my firm status as "middle aged."  At half way to 90, I think the designation is sort of a given.  But 90 isn't just old, it's "right."  So, in an odd sense, 45 is also half way to perpendicular.  If that sounds like some sort of metaphor for being half way to the grave (supine the perpendicular state to standing erect), well, bring on the gloom.  But really, I am consumed by symmetry, 45 degrees being the measurement of the smaller angles of a isosceles right triangle, a shape so central to geometry, architecture, and trigonometry.  It may not quite be the Golden Mean that so captivated the ancient Greeks, but it is a fearful symmetry nonetheless.

I'm not such an avid follower of numerology as I am, say, the Tarot, but I do find numbers beautiful.  And I think 45 is a particularly beautiful number.  I am not so trite as to bemoan growing older or to resent a ceaseless accumulation of years to my age.  If anything, I am startled I've been on the planet for so long.  I feel like these years flew by and are only accelerating.  I am caught in that liminal dilemma of fearing speed hastens the end but also wanting to throw my arms in the air, feel the breeze in my hair (what's left of it), and enjoy the ride.  Wheee!

So, my birthday card to the world: some abstract comics that revel in geometry.  The shape of things to come.  The shape of a life.  That beautiful blend of angles and lines, straight and curved.  A snapshot in time, as arbitrary and meaningful as any other frozen moment.