water runs from the snow
Monday 22 January 2007 | someone left a cookie
this was unlike the story
it was written to be
I was riding its back
when it used to ride me
It has experienced (as Mandarin would say) an abrupt, inexplicable mood shift, from psychomotor retardation to near euphoria. And I’m not sure why. Could it have been when, in despair, I sat in the Cool Psychiatrist’s waiting room this afternoon with no appointment, hoping to catch her between clients, and standing in the doorway of her office she looked at me sideways shrewdly and said to start adding another half a patch to my daily drug intake, and I yanked the elastic of my sweatpants down and did so right there—could it be that the balance of weevils to faeries started shifting then?
I don’t know. But by nightfall I felt blood in my veins again instead of cold mud. And the internal soundtrack, which had been for some reason all day Rickie Lee Jones’s meditative alto version of “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most,” as abruptly became the choppy chanting rhyme-chime of Joanna Newsom’s “Peach Plum Pear,” a song which two days ago I played illustratively for the Brujo in great dislike, following it up for him with Tori’s “Blood Roses” because I thought that a much better pop use of the harpsichord—and now I can’t get the Newsom tune out of my head, its early-Kate-Bush child-wail chorus of na-na-na’s.
Taking a bath helped, as did making Thai noodle soup. But baths and soup weren’t even conceivable before. Maybe it was my brilliant blog-jolted idea to move out of the Cerro Gordo apartment sooner and become peripatetic for the summer? An idea which cools on me now but which seemed blesséd, like an angelically divined escape hatch, around five o’clock this evening? Or is it just that I always feel better after darkness falls? 
And the new moon shining, and my fairy lights glowing cool blue against the snow, and now here it is nearly bedtime and I’m squeaky clean and fizzing, fairly frothing with ideas and plans and chords and words.
It’s about four degrees in my flat and I’m eating vanilla gelato with Hershey’s corn syrup and wondering how I’ll get to sleep. Hypomania: It’s not for amateurs.
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why? why? why? [Editor’s Note: This is the Brujo poking fun of our tendency to relentlessly question the origin of all good experiences in a quixotic attempt to divine their source and thus guarantee their continuation.]