April 15. It wasn’t JUST my birthday.
1452: Leonardo da Vinci born
1755: Samuel Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language first published.
1865: Abraham Lincoln dies having had a bad seat the night before at a show at Ford’s Theatre.
1894: Bessie Smith born
1907: George Platt Lynes born
1912: The Titanic sinks.
1916: Helene Hanff born
1947: Jackie Robinson plays for the Brooklyn Dodgers breaking the color barrier in baseball.
1980: Jean-Paul Sartre dies
1986: Jean Genet dies
1990: Greta Garbo dies
Somehow, all of those things seem relative to me. Then again, when it comes to relative and my life, dysfunction is sure to closely follow, so, there’s that.
Whatever the case, another April 15, come and gone, this one a Tuesday. There was sleet. Yes, sleet. And by 7:30 in the evening I was wonderfully curled in my room, reading. I am truly happiest wrapped in a blanket and a good book. Long around 10 I had a glass (or four) of wine and some lovely text convos with some dear ones. I meant to stay awake until midnight but didn’t QUITE make it.
This morning I am looking back, quickly, on what April 15’s before and after that one Saturday long ago on which I was born have wrought — or writ large — or small — or . . . oh look, just some fun. April 15 has been full of events all of which feel — like I said — related to me.
Now, it’s all so obvious how each is related to me I won’t insult your intelligence with exegesis, rather, I’ll just be visual about it. And you’ll read a book or listen to a song and … well, there we will be, as in, here we are, going.
But, darlings, you know — or should, by the fact I was in bed, by myself, and so content so early last night, much as I love you . . . well . . .
All I have left to say is . . . well, already said by Bessie.