I feel like I should be reading something about addicts acting right suddenly...like this is some kind of devastating phase that indicates that the addict is about to relapse, hugely, like just opening his veins with a penknife to shove the heroin in by the fistful. Who is this wonderful man, and what has he done with my crazy ass husband? We've had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity...Wait, RD told me how to say it right, "We seem to have had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity."
But I am pointless and mushy and smitten and horny and healthy and happy, which means I haven't got a lot to say to you folks. Happy makes me quiet. Happy also makes me crazy. I'm not so comfortable in happy.
We were in the car yesterday listening to something awful on NPR, and this guy recited Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. That line, "the star to every wandering bark," made me feel something, some recognition I'd never felt before. I've had that sonnet memorized since the 12th grade, and sometimes, when I'm impatient or jogging or scared or tired or trying to clear my mind, I'll recite poetry that I've memorized...so I've turned this poem all around in my head, again and again, for years. But that "star to every wandering bark" grabbed me in a new way, and made me think of my own too-recently tumultuous life...and the years preceding...and all the time present and time past, and how in all the time eternally tumbling to now, one thing has always been true, always ahead of me, always important. The ebbs and flows have always pushed me, meaningfully, towards the place where I am, and that's really beautiful.
