maybe i am little sad sometimes   and

maybe you are a little sad sometimes 

because we drift away from reality   hard

facts   into a realms of speculation  and

who doesn't   an analogy might be a 

blue sky   sunny day   becomes an over

cast   cloudy day   there are reasons as

to why   but the reasons don't necessarily

matter   they are   they exist   and so do

we   so we leave our sunny sky for a gray

sky   and it makes us a little sad or

very sad   knowing that we are some of

each   and others are some of each   that

nothing is perfect   that existence is grayish

~

but we often leave reality willingly   it 

isn't necessarily a drifting-away process

it may be deliberate   reality being what

it is   an imperfect construct   and maybe

the analogy is backward   that we live

in a grayscale existence and speculate a

blue sky existence for any number of

reasons   for the pleasure of it   for the

escape it affords   for sanity's sake   for

the impossibility of not drifting into

speculation   for no better reason than

blue sky is lovely to behold   that it makes

us happy   or less sad   to behold   rather

than dwell   that blue is proof of perfection

~

We find others milling about the door, there seems to be a problem. The word is

the club was shut down for a code violation. We and the others are pondering alternatives. My inclination is take it as a sign to go home, make cups of tea and listen to Philip Glass, or watch MST3K and drink wine. Marketa, not surprisingly, would rather find another club, which we do, and dance. And drink. 

I'm in the moment, into the rhythm and movement, but not entirely in the moment. I kind of wish we were home. But we will be home soon, I think. True, I think, but that is then and this is now. What's wrong with now? I think.

It isn't a great cosmological mystery. It's because there are an infinite number of things we could be doing, and we're doing what we usually do, and it may be that if I see one more woman waving her arms above her head, swaying to the music, I will implode. Unlikely as that may be. Time is passing, I said so yesterday, and here we are. Routine is well and good up to a point. I think I reached the point.

Marketa reads my mind and says, let's go. We go. What do you want to do? she says. 

We drive to Pacifica on the west side of S.F., a part of the city that overlooks (wait for it!) the Pacific. There is nothing fundamentally different about this. We like the ocean, the ocean view, but here we are on a Friday night, not dancing, not at home, not at the vineyard, not having dinner with Marcy, not being entirely, one-hundred percent, predictable. And it is so nice being with Marketa, arm in arm, snuggling into each other, as we walk along the path in the park that overlooks the ocean, her warmth and mine melding into one big, syrupy, pool of happiness. 

I am in the moment. I say that without qualification.

~

(Wait for it!) after Elizabeth Bishop's, (Write it!)

in One Art