Smiling into the Abyss

Last night I watched the movie Coffee and Cigarettes -- a little slow for my taste (despite the stimulant-ridden title), but I do like this line, delivered from one weathered old man to another: “You know what your problem is, Bill? You lack joie de vivre.”

I know how Bill feels. This was a joie-less week for me. Maybe I’ll blame it on the overcast weather, or those ever-raging hormones. On Tuesday night, I held back my tears in karate class, as I couldn’t remember the difference between a roundhouse and a side kick. On Wednesday night, I cried as I sat alone and casserole-less in my apartment. (Mary is visiting family in California. Mary! Come back!) I took a 2-hour hiatus from melancholy on Thursday, so I could watch “Survivor” and “The Apprentice” and play with my neglected hermit crabs. But Friday marked a return to sorrow, when I lost a duel with the copy machine at work. (In the words of my comrades from Office Space: “PC Load Letter?? What the f-ck?!”)

Even as I sat in my darkened living room communing with Axl Rose and his mournful “Don’t Cry,” I realized how ridiculous my depression appeared. On IM, I whined to Hillary: “My bangs are too long. My skin is breaking out. My hands are cold. I think I have poor circulation. I’m falling apart.”

Jessedelta: pooor jessssseeeee
htspiller: *cue violins*

Poor, misunderstood me. By Friday night, I’d exhausted my supply of ennui, and my spiritual connection with Axl had grown stale. I had to do something with myself.

So, I lassoed my friends Joelle and Paul into attending an open mic poetry reading with me. Big mistake.

The reading was held at the Himalayan Yoga Café downtown. In addition to chai and muffins, the Café sells New Age-y music and books. To give you an idea of the atmosphere, I wrote down a few of the titles for sale: Fats That Heal, Fats That Kill; The Power of Now; Lighting the Flame of Compassion. The place smells like incense -- natch.

I’m sure that most of the poets had flames of compassion burning somewhere within. Unfortunately, these flames were no match for their conflagration of angst. The first woman who read -- a petit Indian lady dressed in gauzy pink robes and a jean skirt -- spoke of her father’s heart surgery. “I’m glad my girls can see me this way,” the woman’s dad told her. “When we’re healthy, we walk around wearing emotional masks. This is the true me: weak and helpless.”

The third poet honored Arbor Day by lamenting our planet’s state of environmental decay: “Pollution seeps from the sidewalk cracks. Acid rain burns the sky.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks and tried to focus on the pilates videos displayed nearby.

In the middle of all this sighing and gnashing, a fifth-grade girl stepped up to the podium. Her poem was called “Happiness.” The meter wasn’t particularly fancy -- all of her lines took the “Happiness is…” form. “Happiness is an ice cream cone. Happiness is a sunny day. Happiness is a kiss from my dog.”

You’d think my tolerance for this type of poem would be low, considering my current occupation. At that moment, however, I wasn’t far from requesting a framed copy.

I had a last, long sobfest after I returned to my apartment. I also gave my mom an earful of moodiness on the phone -- she and my grandparents are visiting my cousin Parker and his family now, as Parker makes his stage debut in his high school’s production of Bugsy Malone. I’d really like to be with my family . . . but happiness is what we make it. If you don’t have a big reason to be happy, I guess you do the best you can.

So, yesterday morning I made a grocery list and bought ingredients for M&M cookies. I spent the day baking and singing Michael Jackson. For the record, whatever the Jackson verdict turns out to be, “Billie Jean” still kicks it.

Later yesterday evening, I dusted off one of my cookbooks and invited Paul and Joelle to dinner and Blockbuster. My pasta puttanesca could’ve used more tomato juice, but my guests were nice enough not to complain. Between the three of us, we decided that we can pen a collection of heart-wrenching, fist-clenching verse. Joelle suggested the title: The Babbling Brook in the Abyss of My Soul. It’s a work in progress.