Originally posted 10.19.2005
Last night I found such incredible bliss, an ecstatic mix of simple delights that form a happiness so deeply satisfying I can barely imagine anything better. Perhaps people who delight in their children experience something even brighter, but I’ll have to leave that open for guessing.
All together in one spot: people I adore, live music to listen to and to play, a taste of good food, sip of good wine, the visual cheer of a candlelit bistro with windows open to a spirited street, reaquaintence with friends not forgotten (Izzy! Sterling!), enthusiastic praise from formidable musicians, and the promise of more to come.
This happens more and more often to me these days, as the financial freedom granted by a steady job has made me, well, better company. That is, I can afford the H3, the glass of wine, and I no longer have to field the question: how is the job search going? (Right up there with: been playing out much? Still seeing that guy?)
But even this, well, maybe it’s just been so long in coming. I cannot take such joy for granted, and so there is always a slice of me standing outside myself, watching the good time and whispering in my ear: this will never happen again. Not this way. Not these people. Never again this moment.
As though I’m just a visitor even in my own life, renting this body, borrowing these friends, trying this town on for size, and that I’ll have to go. And I, who used to be the last to leave the on-in or the jam, who would linger after races, or stay to close the bar, do just that: go. I have to get up early, I have to run…or maybe it’s something else.
Toeing the edge of joy, perhaps, I’m just a little afraid to do more than test the water, for fear of finding that my trial membership has expired, my visa run out, my lease revoked. And I wake hours before I need to, wondering what it takes to truely believe that any of this is mine, and wishing I could filter the last line of this poem from the 3am synapse loop.
— from The Traveler Has Regrets, GS Fraser
Night with its many stars
Can warn travelers
There’s only time to kill
And nothing much to say:
But the blue lights on the hill,
The white lights in the bay
Told us the meal was laid
And that the bed was made
And that we could not stay.
