Have you ever been so inexplicably happy that you want to write or yell or stop people on the street and tell them it’s going to be okay? For no reason you can discern? And I don’t mean I don’t have a helluva lot of things to be happy about. I do. It’s just that there’s not one particular stimulus to which I can currently point and say I am happy because… [happy stimulus].
As opposed to something making me happy, I feel rather that I am somehow happy on a subterranean psychic level that bestows happiness on everything it encounters. It’s hard to explain. Especially when being depressed seems to be the default for a whole lot of us. But I’m happy, I am, on some weird fundamental level and I want to smile at you.
The sky is a gob of blue cotton candy haunted by marshmallow ghosts. We could go to the graveyard, you and I, and I’d listen to you talk about your problems. What would they mean, all your problems, in that city of bones?
God, if we could—just for a bit—forget everything we think we know about all the things we think we know, we might maybe could then pluck fresh poems from the trees like outrageous ripe fruit and dance in the streets like philosopher clowns. Aren’t we about due, Dionysus, to at last free the convicts, lock up the police, and swap out the sound minds for the zaniness of craziness? I want to fuck like some starving to death thing that forgot the meaning of words.
What’s a tomorrow without language? What’s a problem without opinions? What if we burned all the research and forgot all the theories? I’ll tell you what. Magic. Gods. Wonder. Awe. We might even learn to shut the fuck up, listen maybe, be stunned by the weird fact of our breath and the strangeness of having hands.
Pick something up. Eat a peach. Wash your hair. What the fuck?
I’m happy tonight, so completely, and I don’t know why. I mean. I took my kids out to dinner. I saw a picture of a very old friend. I’m sober. I listened to a wise old man tell stories. A woman loves me: purely, wide open, wholly. I could point at these things as causes but it feels a little off. Rather, happiness feels more like an atmosphere, an emotional climate, weather, perhaps a steady rain of candy and sapphires and neatly folded love letters that pour and splash into puddles of dollar bills around which crowds of joyous bums dance and rejoice.