Follow the Lighted Promenade

In the run of interminable and depthless and often disastrous sadness, there comes those rare blessed moments of tranquility. I've been surrounded in sadness, steeped in it, I've seen misery and betrayal greater than I have known. I am tired, off-kilter, punchless, happy, alone, surrounded. I am listening to music from Madagascar. It sounds good. Suddenly the clouds have parted, like in the picture of the road to Antisirabe, and I find that perhaps my bout of sadness is to be short lived, and the next tide of happiness may stay a little longer. He came to the river. The river was there. Adam and I are collaborating on a story. Gasy Manambara. Sarah and I have been thus for a year. Manatara. Right here I'm happy but not content. There are far larger memories on their way, hopefully off in the far corners of the earth. Volitiana for vaovao tsara. There are souls on the breeze, speaking, warning of approaching darkness but promising a change of direction.

So Colleen bought me the new Beck album and I've been listening to it, a lot, and it's sounded very good. But I have not been down, and to appreciate a work of such towering sadness, I think you need to be a bit down to appreciate it. But I've still enjoyed it. And I know that my moods shift oftener than the tides even. On the way home I may feel it all, 'cause in a sea change, nothing is safe. Teaching's going very well. I designed perhaps my best lesson ever yesterday. It had to deal with the moral philosophies of the characters in "Lord of the Flies" and how peer pressure can make good people do bad things. I bought two bags of candy and put them in my backpack. Then I found a culprit in each class and told them that I was going to leave the class for a moment and they were to go to my pack and say "Hey, there's candy in Mr. Brugioni's bag; we should take some, he'd never know." Afterwards, I came into the room and yell