This past week has been extremely draining for me. Yesterday morning I was in such a dark mood I actually cancelled meetings so people wouldn't have to talk to me. 

Last night, I went to an Indigo Girls concert in Kansas City. I named my first horrible and forever unpublished novel after a line in an Indigo Girls song, and I moved to Kansas City after really listening to "Least Complicated." I like a lot of music, but there are certain singer/songwriters who capture the human condition so eloquently it takes my breath away. Listening to the music last night reminded me that I have a thing that I do that can bliss me out as much as the bass player of the back-up band, The Shadow Boxers. (I wish I had taken video last night, because I have NEVER seen a bass player this jacked before. I found a video on their YouTube channel, though, because you really need the visual to understand this post.)

It wasn't just the bass player, though -- I don't know how young these guys are, but they looked a lot younger than my 38, certainly younger than Emily and Amy. And when the audience sang along to some of the Swamp Ophelia songs, the guys looked like they were getting a straight dopamine drip. The wheels turning, yes, this is what it can be like after all that hard work and heartbreak. As artists we get so few of those moments and so many of the moments of rejection and struggle. You have to bottle the good moments in your head and sip slowly so as not to use that joy up before you really, really need it.

I desperately needed that reminder last night that I can access my shot of bliss when I want to, too. I just have to sit down and search inside myself for the writing. I'm lucky and blessed that I know how to find my joy -- I just need to clear my schedule and make time for it more -- not just here, though I love writing here -- I love talking with you guys -- but the fiction. The new novel. (The second novel is with editors, it's a long story and there's too much uncertainty, which is why I never write about it. Honestly, it pains me to talk about it, because I've come so far in these past three years, but will it be far enough? I can't explain how painful and important this is to me.)

I can't remember what made me remember the poem I wrote right before I graduated from the University of Iowa OH MY GOD SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO, but I mentioned it to my friend Kristi last night in reference to some song lyric, and this morning I looked it up to see how much it sucked. It isn't my best work, but I can clearly see what I was thinking back then, so I thought I'd share it here in honor of the happy boys of The Shadow Boxers and my hope that people sing their lyrics with fervor. Good luck to you and keep loving life.

The Last Day

The last day of college collected no knowledge

different from all of the rest.

To the edge of ability

I tested virility

can't say it was the best.

The snowflakes come swirling with dreamlike unfurling,

covering the entire town.

Hot water rises with scented soap prizes

as I try to steam straight my gown.

They gave me two stars to represent wars

I fought with words and with pen.

To get their attention, attempting dissension

and failing to score in the end.

My work here is done.

My words have not won

the battles that ignorance wrought;

my lofty ambition

achieved no sedition:

I fear education is bought.

But hope will still flower

far from the tower

of ivory I've never seen --

thoughts of the younger

still here will blunder

and sleep in the places I've been.

And then while I was searching the Mac for "places I've been," I found this other one also detailing my obsession with other people who have lived where I've lived. What are their stories? Do they wonder about mine? What do we leave behind? A song? A poem? A smile?

Places We've Been

Lofted bunk on a college campus

somewhere in the Middle West,

I carved my initials in the closet

near where you rest your head.

First-floor walk-up in Chicago,

the corner of Clark and Halsted streets,

no parking, disposal or air conditioning --

do you find it had to sleep?

Historic building in Kansas City,

the very first space I called my own,

I taped poems to the cabinets

and never answered the phone.

Haven't built a house, always filled a space

vacated by somebody else.

I smell you, sometimes, before I drop off

to sleep, in the places you've been.

Today's a tough day. Hang in there, Aurora. Everyone go find your bliss -- every day is a gamble and a gift.

Does it seem like there is a black cloud hanging around?  I've had a lot of friends and family members with bad news lately.  It seems like everyone's company is laying people off, cutting costs, tightening belts and generally making life miserable.  The gas prices have finally gotten high enough to make people think twice about traveling. The airlines suck ass.  Traveling this summer just doesn't even sound fun.  The weather is insane, and heading into tornado and hurricane season is frightening.  I have a headache like every damn day from the barometric pressure constantly changing.  THE WATER IS TOO WET AND THE ICE IS TOO COLD.

Crabby, crabby, crabby.

Which is bizarre, really, because in my own life things are really good.  A year ago, we moved into Chateau Travolta after a horrible experience selling This Old House and my husband's job was miserable.  My beloved cat Sybil died of kidney failure.  In comparison, 2008 FUCKING ROCKS.  So what gives with my headaches and crankiness?

Here's a lightning bolt: I used to think (I know, I know, rookie) that if I were to get a book published, it would change everything. I would never again have a bad day. I would always be on Cloud Nine.  I would never fight with my husband, my child would flit from flower to flower like a red-headed butterfly.  Everything would be grand, forever and ever, amen.  Ridiculous, right?

But how many people really believe that shit?  That if only you had bigger boobs or thinner thighs or a million dollars or a husband that everything would be all hunky-dory all the time?  I never thought I'd fall prey to that, because after recovering from an eating disorder in my youth I realized that being a size 2 really just meant I was fucking hungry all the time.  It didn't fix anything. So I kind of thought I was immune to this sort of fantastical thinking. 

I'm elated about my book coming out in a few months.  I'm really, really excited about the book tour (widget coming soon with dates).  My beloved has been so supportive and wonderful about this dream of mine as it spun toward fruition that I've fallen in love with him all over again in the past few months.  We're remodeling the house we always wanted to have, cigarette-burned carpets and all. I have a new cat, who, while not Sybil, is a very loud purrer and quite cuddly. My husband has a different job that he really enjoys and whistles a lot.  The little angel has adjusted to her new daycare and is looking forward to going most days. She can draw a rabbit and write any word if you tell her the letters to use. She can read certain names and short words.  Things are good.

But you know what?  There are still bad days.  Tonight I came home with this killer barometric-pressure headache, knowing I had some reviews to do and that I was overwhelmed at work and it was only Monday.  The little angel wouldn't eat her dinner and the old truck wasn't starting very well.  When I went to fill the bathtub, the shower was left on  BY ME and drenched the top of my head.  Not the front, not that back, just the top, which looked totally cool and felt EVEN BETTER.  I couldn't find the Advil.  I tried to find the swimming suit and water shoes for tomorrow's "water play day" at my daughter's school, but she wanted the Crocs and I could only find one goddamn Croc, and she insisted the Dora shoes WOULD NOT DO and I wanted to tell her about all the little children in the world who don't have shoes and get parasites through their feet, but then thinking about those little children made me want to cry and it isn't even that time, seriously.  I'm just low on batteries this week.  And the IRS sent us a letter saying we messed up a box on our 2006 tax return and we owe them $390 yesterday. 

So no, getting a book published didn't fix everything. It just felt really good to achieve a life goal. The end.

In a way, though, it's freeing.  I mean, if that's the case, if realizing a dream I've had my entire life didn't fix everything, that means that nothing will fix everything, and this is as good as it gets, these little minutes, and maybe I should stop worrying about the big, grandiose achievements I always think will finally make me happy.  Maybe I am already happy, or I would be, if I could just find the damn Advil.

Or something.
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Teach your teen to stop hating her thighs.  Read the book review at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews. Also! I wrote about oral sex today at BlogHer.  Seriously.