On Steinbeck, Tolstoy and joy

Written of August 29th, 2007 (on paper without lines)

I wonder what I will have to write about when we arrive. I only write to express the negative. The sad, the anger, etc. Mostly the melancholy. I can't say that I am experiencing these emotions. now. But there is cause to write. Even if the result may not satisfy me.

I have meant to write for several nights. But I need music. And I was without it. The solution to this problem lay right under my nose.

So often...

I am currently thinking that I should have made another white russian before I started to write.

Alcohol and music.

I have yet to decide if it is very bad or very good for me.

I knew that I would freak out when it came time. I hate being in transition. I don't like boxes in my house. I need home. I don't need much in it. I don't even like much in it. We are in transition. I knew it would happen. But still these emotions surprise me.

I have never had positive emotions hurt so before. Perhaps hurt is not the correct word. There is no back space. This is it. Hello. Goodbye.

All that I want to talk about is Portland. I have never subscribed to the philosophy that talking about what ails you will do you no good. A fault of mine no doubt. Lauren subscribes wholeheartedly. God bless her. Although she finds fault in this aspect as well.

I will miss the Dakota. Imagine that. I could have had the comfortable middle class Pittsfield lifestyle that I always detested if I stayed. I couldn't grill forever. Doug would not let me. Nor would I let myself. So I have to go.

I thought I had something more to say.
I sometimes wonder if I ever have anything to really say.

I suppose...

I write to express the sad and melancholy. I have always found happy and joyous writing to be without soul. Cheesy. Rubbing it in the readers face. My two favorite authors are Steinbeck and Tolstoy. Vonnegut runs in a close third. So it goes.

But, let me say... I am excited. I am bursting at the seams with joy over how my life is going. I did not think that such a life was for me. For my lot. Perhaps I was born wrong, or raised improperly. Perhaps I brought it on myself. But I certainly never thought that such a life was for me. I am certainly not skilled enough in the craft of writing to express my feelings here.

I still get angry, upset, sad, so on and so forth.
But it is ok.
Shit.

Thank you,