When Smelling Roses Just Doesn't Get It

At a certain point, when I start to feel stressed and tired, I imagine myself in the position of the Humphrey Bogart character in The African Queen at the point where he's poling the boat through a weed-infested swamp, and then gets out and pulls for days on end. He's covered in leeches, and so desperately tired that he's at the end of his rope—it's a thing you can see in his eyes.

I don't want to overdramatize my own busyness lately but one reason I can't discover too many marvelous little moments in life lately is because that's not what you need, really, when you're pulling a boat for days through a leech-infested swamp. What you need is more rest and fewer leeches. Yesterday a bird was singing cheerfully in the predawn darkness and I thought to myself, "Stupid bird." I mean, if life were poetically marvelous all the time it would just get old, don't you think?

Speaking of which, the trash truck just came down the alley. Now I have to bring the garbage can back in. Anyway, stop in soon; I expect a supply of poetic bemarvelment to arrive any time now, but today we're fresh out.