Scary. Time. Scary. Everyone warns you. It is going by too fast. Damn if it isn’t.
How can it be over a year since I last wrote on this blog? I can’t begin to sum up the parts of 2013. So much hard work. Lots of love. So little time for myself. Boys growing. Not six and eight but now seven and nine. Father, struggling with Parkinson’s. Me struggling to help him. Patience. Stretched to the limit.
It is cold in New York City. Colder than I can ever remember. I’m sitting here in my apartment typing with a thick wool sweater, socks, gloves. Bedtime, and I think I’m going in fully dressed. The temperature is setting records. An arctic vortex or something like that.
The last time I remember feeling this cold I was in high-school. The temperature was well below freezing. I went to see the Police perform at Madison Square Garden. I didn’t own a winter coat and it was so cold outside. I wore a thrift shop, men’s brown, tweed blazer over a sweater in twenty degree weather. Was it 1981? Did my parents let me go out like that? My friends and I walked a few blocks to the 28th St. subway from MSG and I remember feeling like I was enrobed in dry-ice. For a moment, I thought I was going to die. So cold I was almost hot. My jaw was chattering violently and I couldn’t speak and I started to panic. I remember entering the subway and hiding the fact that I was crying. I was so cold.
But I had just watched the police bounce around the stage of Madison Square Garden. Stewart Copeland, sweating and elated in polyester gym shorts, no doubt high on something, slamming away at the drums and leaping up from the kit to sprint around the stage. I think this photo may have been snapped at that event. Looks very familiar! Sting. How does he sing like that? They were amazing. I was blown away.
That was a hundred years ago, yesterday. The friend who introduced me to The Police, my best friend at the time, Sarah, with whom I walked through the cold to the subway station that night a hundred years ago, is no longer living. Several years ago, after battling various addictions and demons, she died. Young. I believe of AIDS.
Now I bundle-up my boys. Slathering their delicate faces with moisturizer. Scarves looped around the thick padding of their hooded coats. Downy mittens and layers of thermal underwear. I don’t ever want them to feel as cold as I felt that night. Never.
But The Police. They were magical. My boys know “Message In A Bottle” and “Doo Doo Doo, Da, Da, Da.”
“Life was easy, when it was boring.” Was it ever, Stewart? Really?