The clock reads 7:24PM, T and S upstairs, getting ready for bed, M across the street letting out the neighbors’ dog while they visit Chicago. I’m trying to breathe and stay calm. Maybe I’ll turn off the lights and pray.

This afternoon I drove T and one of his friends to a birthday party at a pet store in the city. After I dropped them off I stopped by Half-Price Books. There are few pleasures in the world as satisfying as wandering through a used book store without time or financial pressures. I didn’t want to spend much cash today, I guess, but I wasn’t pressed for time. The store was busy, and I had to excuse myself as I passed through the aisles, but the space wasn’t so crowded as to grow annoying. Charlotte Bronte’s “Villette” caught my eye, but I put down the book and picked up David Foster Wallace’s “Oblivion” (six bucks) and “Girl With the Curious Hair” (seven bucks) instead. The latter titles are rarer, as far as used books go, so I couldn’t pass. I’d hate to return in a month and find them gone. After leaving the bookstore I considered buying a new plant for the living room or swinging by office to pick up a new print my dean gave me for graduation but I decided instead to head towards home. I stopped at a supermarket to pick up baking supplies. T wanted to make cookies. I directed him to pick two recipes out from a Christmas cookie cookbook. He chose peanut butter/chocolate kisses (a standard, no doubt) and this weird mint concoction that required mint extract, green food coloring, and cream of tartar, none of which I had in the kitchen. After the supermarket I arrived home. M and the other two boys were leaving for a Christmas parade, so D and I talked on the phone about…I can’t remember what we discussed, but the conversation was good. Oh, we talked about poker and whether or not competitive fishing or NASCAR was less worthy of the title “sport.” M and the boys returned home loaded down with Christmas parade swag. T was late returning from the party, worrying me enough to ask M to call the parents responsible for driving him home. He showed up late but happy. S and I watched some football before T and I made the peanut butter/chocolate kisses cookies. I must say they turned out very well. The key is rolling the dough in sugar before baking so the dough looks sparkly. Yes, I know I never take him hunting, but I use words like “sparkly” while describing our activities. I’m a real man.

Anyway, I was in the line at the supermarket, reading the magazine covers, and I saw one in which an actress said, “I know what makes me happy now.” That line intrigued me. Knowing what makes you happy is a very powerful state of being. I can articulate what makes me happy more than ever before. Books make me happy. Financial security makes me happy. Large expanses of unstructured time make me happy. I can also articulate what makes me unhappy. Hegemonic bullshit makes me unhappy. Dressing up to go to work and feeling like I have to kiss someone’s ass makes me unhappy. Feeling like I’m not making a difference makes me unhappy. Boring social events make me unhappy.

I’ve also been thinking of the “exhaustion” question that emerged at this point last year in the journal. I don’t think I’m exhausted, but I do think I’m worn out. The semester hasn’t worn me out; the last thirty-eight years have worn me out. I need to explore this train of thought deeper. Nice to find some insight, though.

I’m thinking of naming the poetry collection “Matchbox Art.” I like it. Good night.