how the night panned out

I don't mean to discourage you in doing this volunteer work...

No, no, it's not discouraging me from volunteering...more like discouraging in general.

After that exchange I boarded the long bus home and stewed. There isn't much else you can do when pinned with a truism.

I thought long and hard. I thought about how to foster a critical personality in such a way that you don't turn into a discouraging asshole intent on raining on everyone's parade. I thought about leaps of faith and why I don't make them anymore. I thought about good will and good intentions and what can you possibly draw from when those don't cut it the way they used to.

I removed my cell phone and stared at it, wanting it to ring just then, wanting to ring someone up. I removed my planner and stared at the week's events, wondering if there was a romantic date scheduled in somewhere in there: there wasn't. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger in a V from nose to forehead, trying to stem a headache. I considered how I never say the word 'peace' anymore except as part of my nickname. I remembered when that was the word most likely to drop from my mouth if someone asked me the time of day.

At home I removed my work clothes, one article at a time. I donned a light house dress, then took it off in favor of a fresh-smelling T-shirt and faded jeans; the neighbors across from my window have been arriving at some conclusions after spying me in a dress several times previously. I got the ceiling fan going to ease the mugginess. I hauled out CD's from the library--KT Tunstall, P.O.S, Suzanne Vega, Brandi Carlisle, Kaki King--and went through them, one by one, methodically. I hauled out Brussels sprouts for washing and chopping. I boiled water for pasta. I blended and sauteed, blended and sauteed some more. I hauled out a meal that genuinely satisfied--something I haven't experienced for some time. I washed dishes and watered all the plants--jade tree, spider, basil, aloe. I hauled out my guitar, strummed some quick songs, figured out a new one, and put the guitar back in its case, back in the closet. I worked two hours on a long and difficult sudoku. I rested on my bed, CD on shuffle, ceiling fan going overhead, teeth unbrushed, face unshaven. I dreamed about dancing.

Another night of getting a lot done, and yet, getting nothing done. No work on the book, no headway on art for a friend's silent auction, no writing letters to a friend headed for New Orleans. A night of being generally discouraging. And--

Something else; a detail I'm hesitant to share, that I'd rather pretend didn't happen. For somewhere during that night I left my apartment, with the fan running. I lumbered down the stairs and stepped outside. It was a pitch-perfect evening. A hint of a breeze, quiet composure. On the corner on the other side of the street two young men had set up a camera and tripod. And there was a young woman, black blouse and dark blue short skirt, hand on hip, gazing at them, glamorous. I watched her stand still for a few minutes, then breaking the pose, laughing and spinning to look at her backdrop--the magic of an intersection I have witnessed every day for the last year and a half.

I went back inside, up the stairs, and rested for a moment on one of the oversized chairs in the hallway. I took out my chain of keys and weighed the longest, skinniest one in my palm. It is my apartment key. I will soon go back in and fall asleep for the night.

But not before holding it near my face, and then quietly, methodically, grasping the bow with both hands, and slowly jabbing the blade into my midsection. It hurts. I lift up my left arm, and then quietly, methodically, graze the blade of the key along the skin of the wrist in imaginary slashes. It hurts there, too. No blood, but pain. That's good. I can feel it. That's good.