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09/26/2006: "Life at its Most Goodnessful"

Fish here. I have meant to write for a while now, but I have found myself the past few days with camera in hand, preoccupied with burning questions that have waylaid even my stringent short story writing schedule. For example:


Aren't clouds just amazing?


What's more beautiful than a row of Bloomfield houses through an overpass fence?


Doesn't a blurry photo of a dapper old man on a downtown street glowingly reaffirm this bustling whirlwind of a planet?

Tumble has twice told me to stop humming to myself so loudly in the hallway. Chestnut has politely asked me to stop running inside to show him every autumn leaf I find in the backyard, regardless of how "incredible" I've determined it to be.

The tally stands at two letters and 8 1/2 phonecalls between Carly and my Chestnut-disguised self (the half-phonecall being when I just ended up sighing into her answering machine over and over). We have agreed on dinner and set a date. I have told her to be on the lookout for a guy of average height with curly hair and a tie. She has told me to be on the lookout for the happiest girl in the place. I have a file folder with transcripts of our interactions ready to hand off to Chestnut on his way to the best date of his life.

The date is in five days, so I think I'll tell him Thursday.

Friday at the latest.