I forced myself out of the house. I went to the first Friday Art Walk to one building (the Ford Building/Division and 11th) in one block of the city which is teeming with art and poetry. I sculpted a mask-trio wall-hanging. The smell of the wet clay in my hands was so amazing, I didn’t know if I wanted to eat it or rub my face in it. I heard music (tragic and beautiful). I ate gluten-free coffee-cake (beautiful but not tragic). I went into a genealogical library which the curator told me was filled with old diaries (to which I replied diaries are filled with lies and edits) but oh my god the smell of dust and old books, centuries old paper.

A man I’d just met and I tried to impress each other with alternating cynicism and optimism and reflections on the story arc of human history. His take was humanity is the story of trying to make things better but doing it badly. Then he ran off in search of the man who’d introduced us. And I was gutted by their absence. Literally eviscerated by the absence of near strangers. The music was too sad. I called for a cab. As I was leaving, my absent companions came shouting down the street after me “G.L.! G.L.!” They’d been sequestered in a nearby bar that last hour or two. I considered going with them. It was early enough to find another bar, another band. But my loyalty was to the cab-driver now (who had after all come when I called him). I went home hoping being found and wanted was enough to stave off the hungry daemons of depression. At 4am, in pain and not sleeping, I looked up joyous on poetry site and discovered this poem. Spirit of delight, why so fickle? Are you getting drunk nearby while I eat organic nachos and a classical guitarist sings me suicidal lullabies?

Song: Rarely, rarely, comest thou