I remember that last fall I was very happy. This fall, I remember that I am strong and courageous, even as I face incontrovertible evidence of my neurosisisises.
The smaller absurdities would give me perspective if I let them. I am, for example, on a mailing list that must be otherwise comprised of the absurdly wealthy. (What’s that? No, not Bill gates wealthy. No, no. Probably not even multi-millionaire wealthy. I’m sorry? Oh. Of course. Of course I mean the middle class! I hope I have not offended potential future patrons). Invitations to luxury car showings, investment management consultations, and time-shares in Fiji are weekly. I peruse them over cereal.
There are moments, too, when my joy leaps (or better—settles) deep, at a turn of phrase or the unique texture of a friend. A psychoanalytic definition of love is: that expression of dependency which neither idealizes (obsession, envy) nor demonizes (anger, blame) the other. There are those moments within moments too.