September 29, 2010 § Leave a comment

I don’t blog when I’m happy. I’m usually too busy being happy.

However, it’s a grey day today, hadn’t you noticed? It’s a grey grey day, less colourful even than the squirrels in Alexandra Park or the puddled pavements or the overcast faces of the blind forecasters. It’s a grey grey day. A sudden change. Acceptance. I was adrift between the clouds and beams and trees, and cast off from my own footholds. We are here now, we are winter. We have become what we watched coming. And I’d rather know this, and reckon this, and layer fleeces over sheets to ward off frost, than suddenly substitute this sky for a visible ray. Give it seven months. Six if fortune favours us.

Soon the white flurry will arive and we will keep our coats on as we dance, and we will whisper our evidence in pale mouthed clouds. I thank you for carpets, and toast, and not living in squats.

I’m happy here, now, because I know I don’t have to be happy if I don’t want to be. I choose to be. I’m happy here because I know I will be unhappy, also. I’m happy here because I posted you a postcard with a ‘haggis refuge centre’ on. Write me. Write me soon.

It eludes me; that evasive thought escapes my thinking cap. I mean, I want to say I’m happy here because I belong in a certain uncertainty, but that isn’t it, that isn’t happiness. Experience, perhaps, but not happiness. Always thinking there is something more, something I’m not experiencing or living true to; that is my unhappiness. I want it all, I want to fill my days with feeling from break to nightfall. Yet now at noon I’m happy knowing I have a little of everything, and I can be contented with the grey and with this feeling.

It’s gone. It has avoided my grasp. And should I ask for a return, it would reply to I: I know you will not harm me, but you are not reaady for me and you cannot understand me. Not now.

And I can be contented with this feeling.


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