I felt unaccountably happy today. It came mid morning. It may have been the coffee or the good conversation I'd had with a friend, a good friend, a marvellous friend, a friend I don't really know all that well, a woman I've had breakfast with twice in three years. who says in the middle of a conversation, just out of nowhere, that she adores me, and I think why? but I don't ask because I don't want to make too much of it, but still it feels like everything to just be adored for no real reason, for the two of us to just like one another so very much. I told my husband afterward, and he said, that's nice, and I said yes, it is nice and then we talked about how inadequate I'd felt early in the morning when I couldn't sleep and I'd made the mistake of looking at other people's websites. you should never look at other people's websites at 4 a.m.
and because when this happensI want to know why, as if I can recreate it, like you may recreate a recipe (if you know how to cook, that is) or recreate a fine moment with tea and a book, you can recreate happiness.
I feel safe when someone is so open with me. as if I've already passed some set of tests, but with people like this woman, let's just call her carol, with people like carol, there are no tests. there's just warmth, a kind of balm, and a beautiful outward looking mien.
so. this is what it is. a thing. words on the page. and it was better in my head. I was thinking of ross gay's book of delights, his stories of encounters with surprises in them. my encounter this morning had all sorts of surprises. first, I was out of the house and dressed in something other than my covid pants, a pair of baggy stretched out yoga pants I bought five years ago. they're so worn out they have extra bags at the knees and thighs. it's not from doing yoga, though. it's just from life, a lot of sitting.the sitting life, I could call this blog. find a couch. put cushions behind your back. put your feet up. look out a window. notice the way the light falls on the plants below the window. notice if you're warm enough. ask if you need tea. then come back. sit again. add a blanket if you need one. there. lesson one over. how to wear out your covid pants in just two years. I put on jeans this morning and tucked my shirt in at the front the way I learned from the designer guys. you just tuck the front in but you let the rest of it hang, so you are somewhere between tidy and messy, cool and different, and perhaps your hair will sweep back the way you like it, or people will look at you as if your hair is swept back because they're so impressed by this look you've got, this new half tucked effect. I went to the restaurant to meet my friend. I was the first person in. it's a cool looking place with chrome bands around the table edge, tables with formica tops and chrome bands around the sides, with chrome stools with red vinyl cushions and a bar to sit at. but we sat at a table. and in the midst of our sitting and talking, she stopped and said, I adore you. and I might have laughed. she has done this before. she is an open kind of person, and I am closed, so I don't really walk around saying I adore anyone, I adore people by teasing them. I wish now I'd said why, but I can see why I didn't. that would have meant more compliments and compliments are always embarrassing. so that's that day. I'm on to another one now, and I'm not sure this is a good idea. blogging. because it's going to take work.am I just lazy? maybe.
Tuesday, May 17 Topic of the day. Pickup trucks. I'm in a zoom with my friend Fiona. Fiona is another good friend, someone who is good with conversation too and with spotting essay topics in the midst of a sentence. Today's sentence involved pickup trucks. We were talking about the horrors of the world. the time we're in, and Fiona said it was like a fermenting about to explode pot, and I said how much I like the word fermenting, and how right that was, that idea of us just on this surface of this thing, this existence, momentarily the same, on the surface the same, the sun shining, the crows cawing, the skytrain whirring; but underneath anger that's tamped down for years and years, bubbling up. back in the 70s I lived in Alta lake, a small place at the base of a mountain, a highway running through. two gas stations, a restaurant, a gondola. further up the road, north, that is, a hotel called the ski boot. what am I doing? I don't know. this sucks. I was excited about pickup trucks. yesterday a large truck with a large engine. very loud. driver in a hurry. big camper on the back. a camper that looked like you could take it through a war zone. we followed behind instead of cutting in front. not the kind of vehicle we wanted on our tails. pickup trucks now, especially, have a feeling, or an aura about them. I've lost my writing. bob came up and interrupted. Fiona told me about hitchhiking. she was angry about it. I told her about hitchhiking nd not getting into certain kinds of trucks. of not even sticking my thumb out if I saw one coming. I was excited about this yesterday. now I'm in a bad mood. okay. drink water. make tea. it's okay. it will be okay. I'm going for a long bike ride. coming home. picking up paint on the way and, I hope, making a decision about colour when I do.
Hi. Here I am. I'm going to try this out. I'm shy about speaking in public, especially when it's an unseen public, so this is one of those things where you just throw yourself in and see what happens.