K: 9/17/02

Work Diary, 9/17/02

This weekend, while I lay next to the beagle on a very uncomfortable
bed in my family's mountain house, I begin to drift in and out of
sleep. Occasionally, the beagle would sit up and bay at some unknown
creature; the night was blessedly free of that chirping scourge,
crickets; and I had the room heater on as the cool air came in through
the window. I'd put myself into some sort of trance, half-awake and
half-asleep, neither irritated nor particularly content.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I have always viewed the months of the
year - and, presumably, the procession of a year - as plotted points
along the outline of a two dimensional mountain. Specifically, the left
base of the mountain might be June, and the peak is January. It's as if
the summer begins a difficult climb, becoming autumn, which is just as
difficult. The winter sets in, and it all seems easier after that, the
rest of the months flowing smoothly down the mountainside.

Here's my own psychoanalysis: Even when the weather is nice, as in
summer, and it's good to be indoors and outdoors, I am always worried.
After all, soon it will be chilly, then snowy and downright cold. But
once we hit January, that pessimism disappears. Though January is the
peak of my mountain, it's also like hitting rock bottom, where nothing
can get worse. Things can only get better once winter rears its ugly
head; and, sure enough, spring comes.

I have always had this attitude. As I lay on that uncomfortable bed in
the darkness, this was no revelation. Rather, it was strange to see it
take a physical shape in my head. The months plotted along the
mountain's edge could easily become the days of the week, or the hours
of a good meal in a nice restaurant.

So, I wonder: Shouldn't it be just the opposite? Why the sense of dread
during the good times, and the feeling of relief when things are bad?
Is it fatalism? Masochism? Realism?

My zodiac sign should be some sort of perverted Gemini: I'm great in an
emergency; I can never relax at parties. I'm patient in traffic jams; I
can't wait for a good play to end. I laugh when fights break out;
civilized dinners in quiet restaurants are deadly.

Who else feels like this? So often I've found that what I consider to
be hang-ups and screw-ups are really the norm; is that the case here?
And where is all this introspection getting me, anyway? Besides a
reputation for being totally self-involved?

Questions, questions?