There's always that weird balancing between the small but great satisfactions: the Chrysler building shining as I walk toward it up Second Avenue; buying Kitty Kaviar for my spoiled Buster; the hope that this version of sweet risotto (OK, rice pudding) in the crockpot will come out better—& thanks to Cookie for informing me that cinnamon is a better bet than allspice, though no thanks for his horrified bemusement that mine was, until today, a cinnamonless household; a good workout, where a woman I've seen around the gym for ages made a friendly suggestion about using the roller—"it's like a massage"—& it was; a lovely & warm note from an old friend... My day, every day, is filled with similar pleasures. And at the same time filled with the awareness of many terrible injustices; of how little I understand—I just read, for the first time Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea, with its glimpse into the dark heart of imperialism & racism; and most of all, the despair that we won't be here doing this forever. "There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow," said Edith Wharton. And of course my personal mopes, which are of no interest whatsoever, even to me.
How can I be happy & forlorn at the same time, all the time?
How can I be happy & forlorn at the same time, all the time?