Right now, my lady is on the 1 California coming down Clay St. through the weird streets of Chinatown where fish flop around in buckets sucking at the moist air that is not moist enough to keep them alive. I look forward to her arrival. That makes me happy.
I am happy about the wind. I’m happy that I’m not trying to parallel park on 14th at Market with no change in my pocket. I’m glad I’m not on an overcrowded train at rush hour. I’m glad I don’t have to pretend to be interested in whatever someone is saying in a meeting that I don’t care about. I’m glad that I tried being a corporate guy. And I’m glad that I got out. I’m elated that I saved as much money as I did. I’m humbled to learn how hard it is to hang onto that money I spent so many years saving up as it dwindles / diminishes / evaporates / is eviscerated into a much smaller number and happening faster than it took to acquire. I like that I’m not worried about what Jesus or any of his followers think about me, my soul, or what might happen to us [my soul and me] when I take my last breath. I’m glad to know that I am still not afraid of taking risks [if Jesus exists, he’s going to be pissed at me and probably send me back to earth as a mosquito that will get squashed on the scaly arm of an elderly Floridian]. It pleases me when my neighbors aren’t banging things with hammers when I am writing. Currently, they are doing something else and I am delighted by this quiet moment here in my broom closet. The world’s tiniest vase full of flowers makes me feel exuberant. The color white makes me jubilant. The smell of freshly cut wood makes me giddy, especially when it occurs naturally in the woods and I stumble upon it [one tree falls onto another tree and splits it open, etc.]. I am happy when my phone doesn’t ring. I am happy that my fingertip hasn’t blistered where I burned it earlier today when I cleaned the hot stove and was thinking about my story and not paying attention to what I was doing. I am happy that I haven’t accessed the news in over 333 hours. I am happy for this moment because in it, I am writing. I am happy that it’s not anymore complicated than that. Sure, the writing can be shitty or just barely better than shitty at times but it’s still writing. The process of writing doesn’t change whether your name is Henry Charles Bukowski or Benjamin Green. The process of writing is fingertips touching keys. Or pencil lead touching the white space between faint blue lines of loose-leaf paper. Or fogging up a window with your breath so you can carve words in the steam with your fingertip to capture an idea. I am happy to be alive so that I have something to complain about. I am happy when my stomach growls so that I can remember that my body is made up of strange organs that keep things moving along like white-gloved train loaders in Tokyo that shove commuters into overstuffed cars during rush hour, which, from what I understand, is pretty much any time of day or night. In Tokyo. So I am glad that I am not in Tokyo right now. I don’t feel like being in a rush. And I am lucky because I don’t have to be. At least I don’t have to be right now, in this moment. This moment, though, like most things, is ephemeral. And I will eventually be rushed again. I may need to rush to the toilet. I may need to rush out of the house because I was hungry earlier and forgot that I poured many tablespoons of peanut oil into a hot pan on that same fucking burner that singed my fingertip earlier. Right now though, I am content watching pollen fall from these tiny flowers that my wifelike girlfriend plucked from the ground just for me. I am happy that a writer is someone that writes. I like to write and I also like saying that I am writer when people ask me what I do. I like seeing their reaction. Some people want to know more and ask what I’m writing. Some people say things like, “Oh, I could never be writer. I hate writing. It’s overwhelming. There are too many things to discus. Too many possibilities.” I am happy that writing isn’t anything like math because then I wouldn’t have anything, as far as craft goes, to be madly in love with. And even though I probably will not go outside today or even open the blinds, I am glad to know that my part is pretty even, which is to say, I’m happy I’m having a good hair day. I am also happy to know that I have high functioning salivary glands because a perpetual pool of spit is apparently a natural deterrent for cavities. Cavities do not make me happy. What does make me happy is thinking that in 100 years from now [May 22, 2113], someone will discover this piece of writing on the internet, which for them will likely be similar to discovering an old worn photograph in a rusty coffee can or faded shoebox for us [May 22, 2013]. They will think, “This person did not appear to be in much of a hurry,” and then they will delete this post but I am smart about things like that and will have a backup posted someplace else. And maybe they will find that and be annoyed by my persistence to be remembered, to leave something behind. They will delete it only to find that I synced this thought into the stratosphere of cloud computing and try as they may, they will not be able to deflate me even after I am gone and the highly adaptable ancient worms of the soil have eaten my flesh and shit it out as fertile mulch. And that makes me happy.