For a few hours this afternoon, I was left to my own devices at the farm Tessa took the car to Copake to run the Harlem Valley Rail Trail and I purported to stay in the barn to finish the baseboard moldings for the dining room. Instead, I sat on the front porch with the dog, looking into the hills with a hazy sadness that occasionally sets in while at the farm.
I think it’s what Douglas Adams meant (or didn’t) by “the long, dark teatime of the soul” – I get this strange melancholy in the hour or so before sunset, when the day is at its hottest and the trees cast long, yellow shadows across the lawn. It’s especially bad in the summer, when many of my worst depressive episodes played themselves out, but I felt it sting a little today. It’s probably because it reminds me so much of being young and alone when I was little, I used to take long bike rides in the afternoon, ending up in various corners of Cedar Rapids by myself, wondering how much it would matter if I ever got home. I would begin huge projects during the day, launch gargantuan schemes, yet something about the vast oceans of late afternoon that reminded me that there was nobody around to share in any of it.
Thank god for basketball. By age 19, I was spending the long teatime of the soul running up and down a court in Carrboro, screaming and yelling and having a great time. Perhaps that’s what I’m really missing around here.
Tessa and I spent midnight to 2:30am in the front room, as the brilliant white light of the Full Pink Moon shone down on us, and we talked about the original dirt road that must have wandered past the farm, and why “The Pink House” will be a success, even if it isn’t.
The Celextant, April 26, 2002
Well, if anything, today showed me that I can still be emotional something Prozac forbade.