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21:47 - October 10, 2002 And as a counterpoint, today made me realize why people don't do drugs. Or, more accurately, Mike my composition teacher made me realize it. It's because there are more things to be ecstatic about than we ever bother being ecstatic about, usually because we don't know about them. The trick is to start knowing. (One might argue that drugs are a reason to be ecstatic as well, and I don't necessarily entirely disagree, but let's leave that for now...) I suppose he went to this concert on campus, one I was going to see but thought it was next Wednesday, called 'Fear No Music', and as he sat and listened, he was simply amazed, and thought about how there is so much beauty and potential, there is so much realized to listen to and sink into, and there is so much as of yet unrealized that is waiting to be created, and at that moment it was impossible to think about bitching about the fact that his snare drum had broken just before his heavy metal concert in Denver, or anything else for that matter. Mike talks too much, but he makes me happy. I left the lesson and instead of walking directly back over the bridge and up the path and past the rec center and into the UMC to sit on my ass and eat bad Japanese food, I swung over under the bridge, dropping onto the soft bank of the Boulder creek, running a bit dry from drought but still rushing well enough over the rocks. I stood ankle deep in the two foot waterfall and watched frogs, and held a caterpillar, and listened to the pounding, rushing feet on the bridge over my head, all in a hurry to get somewhere, or to build up their leg muscles, or just to sweat a sufficient amount to say they were active. These frogs alone were a good reason to be happy. My wet feet were a good reason, the caterpillar that moved more like an inchworm was a good reason, the book of music in my backpack was a good reason, everything was a good reason to be happy. It is a rare thing when I'm able to recognize this. As I was telling Andrew, I am by nature quite cynical. I thrive on drama, irony, stormy days, and loneliness. I write bad poetry when in the throes of it all, and don't even notice that it's bad. I tell equally crazy stories about crazy people on the street with relish. The small things are usually a perfect source of bizarreness for me, not happiness, what a concept. When the prom limo was so stupid it couldn't even pick us up at the aptly named 'Limousine Pick-up/Drop-off' site, citing the fact that he was prohibited from entering there because he was a limo, I relished that. I mean, it sucked, but I relished it. The entire walk over to the entrance of Navy Pier, while my feet blazed pain in my prommy platforms, I made fun of that limo. The whole way. By the time we got there I was in fine form. I calmed down by singing Fiona Apple as a lullaby on the way home as the sun was rising, but Mike talked in the middle and get yelled at by Camille. That in itself is a good reason to be happy, though it happened over six months ago. My CD collection is a reason, my warm bed is a reason, the party going on next door is even a reason. They're all over the place. What is wrong with me?
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