Ode to the Meteorologist of my Soul: A Dramatic Interpretation

The full-bodied clouds today were splintered with gold this morning from the uninhibited sun. As I drove the children to school they sang along instead of riding in silence (their version), "My name is JonASS... Thanks for all you've shown ASS." When I dropped them off they were smiling and it occurred to me that I have fallen prey to the oldest trick in the book: thinking that life sucks just becuase the weather has changed.

Since the new year Long Island has been splattered with snow. I'm used to the moods of all four seasons, and moods associated with rain, but this is the first time I've lived with snow, and the first time I've dealt with my reaction to it.

This morning it melted - for the most part - and my former feeling of detachment was gone.

Of course it was.

The detachment was the result of me viewing snow as a barrier to expression of any kind. Snow blurs distinctions of every kind. With the renewed ability to sense the texture and color of my environment, I am also able to perceive my own dimensions with more congruance.

I wish I weren't so affected by external things. I wish I determined my own mood every day. I at least wish I had the ability to recognize what stimuli is having the effect on me.

if wishes were horses the poor would surely ride

During this time it was clear to some strangers how I was perceiving myself. However I still managed to miss the point. On a side note, stick and stones just break bones, but words will fucking kill you.

If anything SHOULD have a strong impression on how I feel, it is the music I wake up to. Since Lindsay and I awoke with "Welcome to the Jungle" and realized the mistake, I've been searching for the perfect album.

The first four months of living in New York found Denison Marrs ringing in the AM, but surely there's something else?

Salt'n'Peppa got me out of bed this morning, and I was strangely comfortable with that, of course, it was a mistake. I forgot that yesterday the cd in the player was a compilation my friend had made, and I was searching it for this remake of "Send Me an Angel" (anyone seen Rad lately?). The first song is "Can't Touch This," but I slept through that and woke up for "Push It."

I'm going to buy the Donnie Darko soundtrack and wake up to that. This is a good plan. And now I'll move from depression to obsession.

I'm coming down with a cold, which is great (not really) because it's almost the weekend, and this means I'll be full of mucus when I hang out with Nathaniel.

There's only one thing to think about that.

I saw an attractive, tall, dark, lanky boy at the grocery store today (very unusual in this town) who received my smile. I had the urge to tell him that he's my type, because for a minute it occured to me that I would like to know that I'm someone's "type," but with further thought I realized it depends on WHO thinks you're their type whether or not it can be considered a compliment. I could let him know he's my type, and his response could be, "Yeah? And who the fuck are you?"

I'm the "type" for forty-year-old, un-wed, tortured artists who want to "show me places in New York" and discuss etymology and seduce me with avante-gard performances of Hamlet where Ophelia is actually Hamlet's alter-ego and they have a big penis.

Yeah, so it basically took me an eighth of a second to decide NOT to give him a compliment, because it could ruin his day.

Go ye one and all to see how my hair has been growing.