I hate writing about the good because then I feel so girlie, so silly, so trivial and so vapid. If I were to say, "I miss her" even though she's merely inside the house, while I am in the other room, does that not make what I say, or the meaning behind it, so much less? Isn't it better to write about fire and brimstone and death and destruction, decayal, denial, illness, hopelessness? as though the good, the happy things, are so much less. Simply because they are, as in, they exist as they are, in a sort of lowered state, lowered meaning closer to the whole, closer to god, closer to being unable to be deconstructed. This isn't making sense. No one really pauses to ask themselves, "why do I feel happy right now?" but we do pause to ask, "why am I so sad? and how can I remedy this?" happiness does not require reflection. It just requires breath, acceptance. So, no, I'm not going to write about the good moments; I'm not going to try to bastardize them by pitifully attempting to reproduce them on the page. See how limp all of this is? how empty? how could it compare? you cannot word laughter. You cannot word a smile. Show, don't tell - isn't that what we're supposed to do as writers? but how can you show a smile on the page? how can you show something so concrete? even with things like chairs, doors - the only thing you can do is tell, really. "There is a door. It is painted pale green; the paint is chipping and the knob is rusting." I'm not showing; I'm telling. The only things that can be shown are the un-showable. Mental states and thoughts - the only way to reify such things is to write them; by giving them words they become concrete, they are shown.
Happiness differs from sadness in such a way. Happiness is a smile, or the slight turn of the lip during a smug smirk, or how the hand holds a cigarette. Even something slightly less solid - perhaps an unexpected word, dropped casually in conversation as though it is nothing special, though both knowing it is special. ((Words, afterall, weaken the knees. Tell me we're symbiotic and see if I don't melt.)) Happiness is the sound of a voice cracking under the pressure of too much whiskey and too many cigarettes. It is windchimes and warm winds and train whistles carried through the midnight air from downtown. It's running to the tracks to see the caboose pass. It's bike-rides at 7am when the morning smells of pen-ink and oranges and everything is still slightly damp from the pre-dawn drenching. It's anais on the road and JC on the radio, windows always down. It's cooking dinner, eating on the couch, watching law & order: criminal intent and making half-jokes about how if they ever put Vincent D'Onofrio's character in glasses it would be over.
But sadness, sadness is different because it's not so concrete, unless you choose to make it so - a cut, a cry, a fit. The sadness permeates all. It is like the tao - it is, it isn't, it's there but un-graspable. It's present, but you can't hold it, can't smell it. You can say, it's my feeling worthless, it's my body, it's my stupidity, but that's not the sadness, that's only desperate manifestations of it. In a way it is akin to how protestants see the wine and the wafer as representations of Jesus' blood and body, while the catholics see them as Jesus himself. The consumption of a metaphor versus the consumption of a corporeality.
Am wondering: is this good enough? Is this what you wanted?
A resounding no no no.
