After I wrote last night about being happy, I thought of an old song that mirrored what I was feeling. After listening to the entire album, I found it remarkable how well the emotions of that music match my own heart at this point in my life. Bob Bennett’s “Matters of the Heart” came out while I was in college. Even after all these years, it holds up really well, and you can listen to the entire album on YouTube. The specific song which matched my feelings last night was “Madness Dancing,” but I still find every song on the album to be strong with the exception of the eighth and ninth. (The song about his parents, called “1951,” is especially poignant.) In fact, the opening and closing songs paint a picture of my heart at its best now in these lines: “A light shining in this heart of darkness, A new beginning and a miracle, Day by day the integration of the concrete and the spiritual.” It’s old music that you’ve probably never heard, but it means a lot to me.
I call my Lucy the World’s Happiest Dog. Maybe you can see why.
She’s never in a bad mood. She’s always thrilled to see me. She doesn’t care what we do — as long as she gets to spend time with me. She’s loving and gentle, but above all else, she’s happy. All the time.
I haven’t been happy for a long time. The world seems to have gone mad. My life is nothing like I want it to be. I feel as though I’ve lost control over my direction. Nothing is as I want it to be.
But tonight, I am happy. Do I need a reason to feel happy?
Maybe it’s the crisp autumn weather that’s just arrived in Birmingham this weekend. Maybe it’s the feeling of peace that comes from slowly working through deeper issues. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m happy tonight. I feel the way Lucy always acts.
And in my happiness, my thoughts turn to a woman. I’m happy enough that all I want is to share my happiness with her. Even though I can’t.
I didn’t get to sleep Friday night until the sun was coming up Saturday morning around 6:30 a.m.
I’m not quite sure what I was doing all night, but this has become a pattern for me lately. I spent some of the time reading. I watched a movie. And I spent quite awhile at this little gazebo about half a mile from my house. It’s at the center of the little downtown area of the suburb where I live. While the rest of the city is asleep, it’s a good place for me to write.
I’m back there again Saturday night, but it’s hard to be sure why I’m here. I feel the need to write, but I also feel a creeping frustration that doesn’t have a name. Part of me wants to hide and be alone, and another part of me wants to desperately reach out to someone. I feel so conflicted — like someone who is screaming like a mad man on the inside but looks perfectly calm on the outside.
I feel as though I’ve lost control over my life — and these late-night times of solitude seem to be the only times when things make any sense.