Accidental moonings not withstanding, this has turned out to be a really nice week. The sadness that has shadowed me since early summer is finally waning. I realized the other day, that I am (once again) beginning to feel happy, which is far superior to miserable or even just not unhappy. How and when that happened are unclear. I still have strongly mixed love/are-you-fucking-kidding me?!?! feelings about the Swiss (well, one in particular), but this general sense of being okay is a refreshing change. I'm content to just be thankful for it and have no plans of looking any gift horses in the mouth any time soon. Frankly, the chances of my looking even non-gift horses in the mouth are negligible, but I'm not one to quibble.
So, it's another Saturday night (even the Saturday night before Valentine's Day) and I really ain't got nobody, but that's okay. It's one of those relaxing nights when even the dogs seem happy. After a rousing round of the blanket game, Toby (who is not getting old, but is, I have decided, like prematurely grey canine Anderson Cooper - but with more joie de vivre) is snoring in the corner. Baxter is off being Baxter (an occupation that consists mostly of barking and grumbling at the cat, because she has the affrontery to be sleeping in his chair). Suffice it to say the denizens of Chateau Powellhurst are relaxed.
This rainy Oregon dark is perfect for a glass of wine, a little Sam Cooke (how can anyone not love Sam Cooke? I am so looking forward to reading Peter Guralnick's Dream Boogie), and a little reflecting over the past busy week of new dresses, strange dreams, finally completed collages, successful performance reviews, and opportunities to not only sponsor a war protest, but also potentially go to Mississippi this winter to help rebuild homes for victims of Katrina. It's nice to again be in a place where I can appreciate what life has to offer rather than just being sad for what it has taken away.