Annals of Recapitulation

I guess I still have a soft spot for Woody Allen's 'Side Effects,' where he cites one of the works of his absent-minded professor character as 'Styles of Modes.'

I've been reading (yes, still) Prague by Arthur Phillips. I don't know if I'd relate to it as much if I didn't have some friends run off to Prague in the 90s. Oh, but the book's set in Budapest. Which skirts the fine line between clever and stupid, but I think he gets away with it.

One of the themes of the book is the history of nostalgia, or the idea of people being nostalgic for that which they've never experienced. That probably registers a little easier on me these days, too, because when things are going poorly, it's natural to think of better days. I remember a few weeks ago...

But of course a few weeks ago I wasn't really happy. Or rather, it doesn't seem possible that I was doing anything but conning myself. Especially after exhausting the friends I can talk to about the divorce: I'm not about to try and recruit mutual friends of ours into an Army of Scorn. I don't think she'd do that to me, and more significantly, I won't do that to my friends. After thirteen years of marriage, the list of friends of mine who aren't friends of my wife is...okay, it's ridiculous to call three people a 'list.'

Oh, I guess the list would include the hired friend, I believe he'd be considered a mental health professional. Except he's not crazy that I can tell, so he can't be a psychologist, right? He's seriously helped me a lot, probably about as much as a professional can.

But as I say, the tendency in mulling things over at this point is to remember the scars, wounds, frustrations and slights. Not to defend that, because when you start talking yourself out of nostalgia for this time and that time and the other time, you end up...well, I won't speak for anyone else. I end up thinking that the only time in my life I was really happy, with no regrets, was half an hour my junior year of high school.

Which is ridiculous if you know me, because I'm a pathological optimist. When I had the heart attack, I'm convinced the doctors kept me an extra day to impose the grim truth of things on this peculiarly up-beat and absurdly young patient. A while before that, when I had risen by Peter-principle from a job I was good at to a job I still don't comprehend, and was called to a meeting with the President and head of HR (which could only mean termination, that formation never signaled anything else), all I could think of was what I could do with the severance money and what a relief it would be to wake up unemployed instead of incompetent.

Still, a glass that's half full can just remind you how incredibly thirsty you are. And I don't suppose I'd register as human if I was without contradictions...