Sunday, February 11, 2007

You've Got New Post

'Why is there no new post on your blog?' Best friend asked.

'Because I'm happy. I can't write when I'm happy.'

Best friend wore a curiously best friend expression, managing to blend relief with curiosity with perplexity with amusement.

'I honestly can't. Today I felt like writing after a long time because I just saw Parzania and I was disturbed. But the feeling passed because I'm largely happy.'

Best friend wanted to know more. So I supplied. About husband and life and togetherness and balance and things falling harmoniously into place.

Best friend smiled and said, 'for those reasons, I'm more than willing to accept absence on the blog'.

An ex boyfriend and almost ex friend had once told me: for the sake of poetry, you always need to be heartbroken. Your being happy would be a great disservice to the world.

Very flattering it was. Made me feel quite like the raven haired, wild eyed beauty I always fancied being. Ah. The me I've wished to be.

Happiness is largely a deadening emotion. It makes much of habit, a big deal of consistency, a huge fuss over stability, and can well lose imagination en route. The tremulous beauty of sadness is fertile ground. It breeds thoughts that seek wings of expression. Happiness has no such desire. It sings itself to sleep with a smile on the lips and is more than content with conversation, beer and a pay cheque. Good sex helps. Good conversation helps even more.

Sadness can make much of a muchness and therefore help you 'live life larger than life' as a film maker friend says to me about his own. Not about sadness that is, just about his own life. But it applies equally to the emotion so I borrow, conscientiously. Conscience can screw the rhythm of writing.

My husband can't watch Parzania at 2:55p.m. tomorrow because he has to visit his daughter. His daughter who isn't mine. His weekend sojourns to his ex wife's house makes us miss many saturday and sunday things. The fact that EPL is on, on Saturday nights, puts paid to evening plans as well. So I catch up with friends. And get my weekly alcohol fix in the process, since I try and avoid drinking too often when with hubby. He kicked booze almost 2 years ago after his liver threatened to pack up, so I try and avoid putting temptation his way.

But such weekends notwithstanding, I must shamefacedly confess, I am happy. My husband loves me and displays his caring in a zillion different ways. He cooks for me and kids with me. He makes plans with me and messes up plans with me. He musses up my schedule, my hair, my thinking, and grins delightfully at the end of each mussing up. I love it. I love him. And ignore the muse. I am happy in a dumb cow like way. I fight the weight that happiness insists on heaping on me. I gym. I hum. I humdrum.

I don't write enough. I don't care.

Happiness is a bloody bad thing. I wish it upon everyone who's had the curse of imagination preying upon their expression. When you let go of the word, the paint, the musical note, the dance step, the charcoal, the pencil, the stage, the spotlight, what you're left with is that which you were searching for through all these idioms and mediums. That fat, boring, complacent thing called Happiness.