Some days writing is the only way I know that I really exist. The curtain between the real and the imagined sometimes becomes so frayed that it is transparent. Writing restores the warp and woof of the weave; reconstituting the barrier that “this” is the side where society and the real people live, while “that” is the side where things appear and disappear of their own volition – an Alice in Wonderland of the mind where “reality” becomes “curioser and curioser”.
Today is one of those days. I am in a good mood, but the Itty Bitty Shitty Committee is filibustering my brain; telling me that I have done nothing today to deserve feeling good, that in fact my past (and likely my future) contains many things for which I should feel eternally guilty. Fuck the committee. I shall feel good today – even if the committee claims it is undeserved and temporary. I shall trust that my happiness lies on “this” side of the curtain and that the committee lives on “that” side. Here and now there is ample cause for happiness – I need do nothing to earn it. The sun shines in the window of the Bluebird Restaurant, a welcome sight after weeks of gray Iowa sky. Silver rimmed tabletops, chairs with blue plastic seats and silver legs, a blue and white checkered floor, windows large enough to let in the entire sky - energize my fingers to write these words, these very ones, to let me know that my happiness is real. The committee has no argument for this experience. There is none – only acceptance and joy.
