You thought it was over didn't you? Your week dragged on and you thought the magic had ended. Poof. Kaput. Now you're looking for it, you want it back.
You've arrived at this point, at this very juncture, this Friday, feeling like all life had been sucked out of you. Leather-faced and bone-dry, you're nothing but a desert of thorny shrub and tumbleweed straight out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, that haunting harmonica score wailing in your achy head.
Everybody wants a piece of you. All of 'em, all the characters: the kids, the boss, the job itself, the partner, the spouse—they all want something from you, don't they? But you feel like you've nothing left to give. And maybe you don't. Maybe, when you get home today (or maybe you're already home) you just head straight for bed. For a long slumber.
Or maybe not.
Maybe you can't sleep because you're obsessing. You want to know why you have to carry all the bags and juggle all the balls—you don't get this brand of entertainment. You want to know what's in it for you—what's it all for? Time is endless, yet finite. Where's the meaning? Obsession's got its twisted fingers around your neck and it's suffocating you. It's going to finish you off unless you take it down by its knees. You gotta get it straight. Flatten it.
So you turn on the light—the one with the alarmingly bright bulb that you'll never get to changing—and grab that book sitting on your bedside table. Yes, that book, the one with all the answers, or so you thought. You leaf through it and start thinking about all the characters in your life, how you oughta just sit 'em all down and have an intervention. Set 'em straight. Tell 'em you're tired of doing It. All of It.
And then you do it: you call them in and gather them 'round the edge of your iron bed. They're pretty comfortable, those characters, so what do they do? They all sit on your bed, all around it, on that nice, freshly dry-cleaned, linen jacquard coverlet. And they start yackin', a cacophony of voices you don't recognize. It's all garbled and crazy, completely absurd. You picture yourself in a Beckett play. Or maybe more like a Monty Python movie, only you're not laughing. So what do you do? You're too nice, so you offer them a beer or a milk or a glass of chardonnay, hoping that will shut them up. (There you go again—giving.) But it doesn't.
You clear your throat (loudly) and ask them what the hell they all want from you. You tell 'em you don't know if you can do It any longer. You're barren wasteland and haven't much left to offer. You're done, you say, you are tired of It.
There's a quiet in the room. Lover looks at boss, boss looks at bags, bags looks at kid, kid looks at balls, balls looks at job, job looks at all those damn dinner-time fundraising calls, and calls doesn't know where to look. They are befuddled.
And so you say, Get out! Just get the hell out. I don't know what I called you in here for in the first place. I've forgotten, dammit. I'm done with It. I can't do It anymore!
Then you get out of bed, pick up the balls and start juggling them. Now you're smiling, hey that feels good. You remember what you love—your music, your books, your work, your family, whatever it is, and that it's Friday night and you're still alive! You start to whistle and clang your tambourine, and feel as free as a gypsy.
And those things, aside from your loved ones, those things that brighten the world and make you feel alive—the collision of harmony, poetry, literature—stand before you and smile back. They're humming a poesy that makes you feel fluid:
And in your desert springs a glistening estuary that gently greets the wide open sea:
And you know you can do It. It's alright, yes all straight now, and you'll sure as hell dance to the end.