the habit of being

(in a park, under the shade)

Upon the start of a new journal, many things must be considered. First and foremost, the plan that shall make this body of musings and complaints fundamentally and unmistakably better, more meaningful, and decidedly more literary than all other works of its kind previously undertaken by this author. This brings about the central and ever-present topic of melodrama. It seems silly to condemn it, as I so often do, recognizing it as a weakness, when it is unavoidable. Of course, I do not really believe that, because it is my life, and one cannot honestly belittle one�s own life in such a manner, though one might try for purposes of humility. Still, I recognize that these things which excite me to tears and jubilation, the tears literal and the jubilation figurative, are often one and the same, rendering me fickle and, in a word, nineteen.

Being that as it may, and considering also that a blue damselfly landed on the edge of my notebook and a fat girl holding her son by the hand smiled at me just now, I will begin again as I always do, with the understanding that I may very well be manic-depressive like my father, and also that I intend to write something someday that overshadow this rather over-stimulated mass of pictures and stings I call my life.

Yesterday was the Fourth of July, and after we played Scrabble and I had read in a shaky voice a long account I�d written of a very bad day in June, my lover and I set out to find the fireworks.

We�re camped in a vacant lot surrounded by houses, some of which have barking dogs. Our tent is behind an uprooted tree stump, among skinny bushes. We did not bother to take it down, but simply followed our path out of the neglected area, past the white and orange golf balls and deer tracks on the ground, past the little white house with the garden where the old man lives, and out to the street.

Already there was booming to be heard in all directions, and many multicolored fireflies making circles above the tops of trees. We started getting excited, making high-pitched noises and pointing, hopping little hops and stamping our feet. We walked quickly down the road toward higher ground, hoping to gets a better look at the display. As usual, James walked much faster than I did, and it times he even broke into a run.

This child-like exuberance was nice, a cleansing thing that seemed to wipe away the depressing recitation in the tent and the general tide of our affairs, my unwanted pregnancy, the grumbling and silent resentments. We were walking, power-walking even, down unfamiliar streets in an unfamiliar town, but we fit perfectly, because it was a holiday and all we wanted to do was gawk at the pointillated kaleidoscope in the sky, with minds full of exclamations rather than trains of thought.

Sometimes there came a break in the trees, and he stopped and I caught up and we stood side by side looking up into the sky. Then he grew restless and moved on, and I followed, imagining that instead of passively observing the spectacle I was stalking it cunningly. But I got tired and sometimes couldn�t see a thing over the treetops, and I stepped in a mud puddle near the railroad tracks.

Next we stopped, it was in front of a little house. Just before, I�d whined that the view wasn�t going to get any better because we kept going and going. He retorted that I could stop and stay a place if I wanted. I sighed, thought about how Things Should Be, and kept walking. In front of the little house we stopped a while and emptied our minds with the glowing spheres and stars and smiles in the sky. He looked with longing toward the end of the street. I watched him walk off down the road without me. My eyes strayed back and forth from the fireworks to his shoulders, swaying back and forth and finally stopping at the next intersection down.

I stayed where I was as a matter of pride, in the spirit of Independence Day, but kept thinking how I should be watching this with an arm about my waist, someone to oohh and aahhh in unison with.

Some odd shadows on the roof of the house in front of me turned out to be people. I watched it with them, with the group of teenagers we passed on the way, with the old women at the ends of their driveways. They were all with the treetops and me. He who left me in search of the unobscured view watched it all alone. This is how I thought.

This is how the world is when centered so strangely around one interaction, and all the surroundings play a subordinate role to the unblinking tale of �us.� Everything is viewed in terms of that plot line.

That plot line I hope to diminish, so that I might see the world shine in again, unshaded.