There was a time when saying “I’m 41”, or I’m in love, or I’m having a bad day, or any positive statement that had solid characteristics applied to a self would seem painfully incomplete.
You mentioned on your blog something to the effect that it seems weird to you that after all these changes that you have gone through and continue to morph through, that I still write so personally and insistently to you.
Poetry went through a post modern phase, where the artist went to great pains to remove himself from the painful literal and time bound concreteness of his words.
Jazz is past that – it puts its faith, its self, squarely inside the muse itself.
I don’t see my memory of you when I write you. You are not a frozen thing. Lovers never kiss frozen things – the kiss is the thing.
So, I’m 41. I have no angst anymore in saying “I am this, or I am that”. It goes without saying that the verb “to be” is a linguistic construct, not an accurate representation of Platonic real independent identities. It needn’t even be mentioned how moments slide into separate moments, how fragments and pictures interact and embrace, how discreteness is a convenient snapshot that allows the unfolding of description.