It is Friday.
I am in an impossibly good mood. I wait for it to go away, try and sneak up behind, catch it with a sad thought. I keep looking over my shoulder and it's still there, the good mood, just chilling out in a corner of my mind. I would try to reason it into nothing. Try and understand why, worry where it comes from and worry it away, but out of thin air I am happy. Like Uncle Albert, I cannot come down now. Then I chanced at-a-glance the calendar blotter below me. Friday the 23rd. A pay day week at HHC. July's going so fast. The 23rd of July. Something about the 23rd.
Fuck. I found it. Flowers delivered, proudly sitting on my desk, the rose blushing envy of all the cubicles. I found it. The July month memory of the last celebrated versary. With the foresight of the end I couldn't face, we walked backwards, holding fast to the flavor, same restaurant, and facts, first kiss by the Hudson but we skipped the movie, of the first first date. I turned away from college, the place I'd imagined since middle school was the promised land (Moses couldn't enter after all) and the promise of pain of parting coming perhaps never to depart. Shot tapioca tea balls for distance (peeing contest competitive) and to vandalize the sides of Citigroup's tower walls and ceilings of glass. Swinging in the sky of the play ground, walking around the edge of the fountain, feeling the beauty and peeved that it didn't hit him with the same physical force that made me ill. Going home tired out by all the reincarnation and comparison to the first life. I found the reason my good mood couldn't last. That moment too momentous to me was a year ago, and I bet I'm the only one on either side of the globe who remembered. Damn calendar. I found it.
My arms stretch up from my chair and I smile. The sky just darkened and the rain has been released that was pent up in the air. This morning run it smelled like rain and the cologne of the man across the street and half a block down which dissolved in the humidity. Suddenly the office is startlingly light in stark contrast to the dark falling sky. I will walk home in the rain through New Haven's poorest neighborhood. I am still in an incurably good mood. Some sacrificial right to be held for 365 precise days don't make a difference. No Kabbalah numerology of some combination of a 2 and 3 and a 7 will make me a Mystic, Miss sick, relive again on this day. Writing is something separate from reliving. And happiness something separate from having no pain or spite or some good. It's not enough to will happiness, to decide to be happy. How hard is it to decide to be in a and get in a good mood? Hard. It doesn't add up just because there's nothing to subtract. It doesn't sum to happiness just because I went to see cabaret, drank wine, had a friend to walk me home, the same to go out to a bar with tonight, listened to a good mix on the way to work and the cloth of the gray sky was worn through by the knees of heaven and frayed in one beautiful wrent of light as I looked up and ran through this morning. It's really coming down now. It won't let up. There is no reason to be happy. There's no reason to at all. There's just too much joy to escape it.
Fuck. I found it. Flowers delivered, proudly sitting on my desk, the rose blushing envy of all the cubicles. I found it. The July month memory of the last celebrated versary. With the foresight of the end I couldn't face, we walked backwards, holding fast to the flavor, same restaurant, and facts, first kiss by the Hudson but we skipped the movie, of the first first date. I turned away from college, the place I'd imagined since middle school was the promised land (Moses couldn't enter after all) and the promise of pain of parting coming perhaps never to depart. Shot tapioca tea balls for distance (peeing contest competitive) and to vandalize the sides of Citigroup's tower walls and ceilings of glass. Swinging in the sky of the play ground, walking around the edge of the fountain, feeling the beauty and peeved that it didn't hit him with the same physical force that made me ill. Going home tired out by all the reincarnation and comparison to the first life. I found the reason my good mood couldn't last. That moment too momentous to me was a year ago, and I bet I'm the only one on either side of the globe who remembered. Damn calendar. I found it.
My arms stretch up from my chair and I smile. The sky just darkened and the rain has been released that was pent up in the air. This morning run it smelled like rain and the cologne of the man across the street and half a block down which dissolved in the humidity. Suddenly the office is startlingly light in stark contrast to the dark falling sky. I will walk home in the rain through New Haven's poorest neighborhood. I am still in an incurably good mood. Some sacrificial right to be held for 365 precise days don't make a difference. No Kabbalah numerology of some combination of a 2 and 3 and a 7 will make me a Mystic, Miss sick, relive again on this day. Writing is something separate from reliving. And happiness something separate from having no pain or spite or some good. It's not enough to will happiness, to decide to be happy. How hard is it to decide to be in a and get in a good mood? Hard. It doesn't add up just because there's nothing to subtract. It doesn't sum to happiness just because I went to see cabaret, drank wine, had a friend to walk me home, the same to go out to a bar with tonight, listened to a good mix on the way to work and the cloth of the gray sky was worn through by the knees of heaven and frayed in one beautiful wrent of light as I looked up and ran through this morning. It's really coming down now. It won't let up. There is no reason to be happy. There's no reason to at all. There's just too much joy to escape it.
