the fish bowl

As I type, I see that my little digital clock to the bottom right-hand side of my computer is telling me that the current time is 12:35 a.m.  Holy crap, I am still up.  For those of you that know me as "Old Man," this will seem quite the accomplishment for me.  For everyone else, yeah, not that amazing...
     Anyways, as I am still up and trying to finish watching It's Kind of a Funny Story--if only the stream would stop freezing--I find myself wondering how close the average person comes to being institutionalized in this society.  I can't help but remember Stephen King's essay "Why We Crave Horror Movies" and how he talks about how everyone is crazy to some extent; some of us pick our noses on the bus while others chop up people and hide them in the closet.  But are there some people who are just one bad day away from padded walls and eating every meal with a spoon and strict supervision?  Could any of us be that close on a daily basis?  Personally, I don't think I am, but isn't that what every mentally unstable person would think?  Who knows?  All I am concerned about right now is tight-roping that line of sanity and enjoying the rush as I teeter back and forth between the camps.
     I really can't say how close I am to one or the other at this point.  All I know is that the simple pleasures in life have never been better for me.  I know I started my list of simple pleasures about a week or so ago, but now I feel that it may not be that good of an idea, trying to pinpoint such things and expand beyond what they may be capable of holding.  Instead, I will treat them as they are: fleeting moments to be savored for as long as they are around.  These moments are practically my safety line to the sane world (or what a majority of people consider to be so anyways).   The moments when I get to read in my hammock and smoke my pipe on a beautiful, sunny day.  Days when I don't wear my watch at all because I have nowhere to be and time is no restraint on me.  Spending hours in a used book store, getting lost among the millions of pages.  Jumping on the trampoline with my sisters and getting ice cream with the family.  There are fantastic events in everyday, no matter how small, which help ensure my sanity and that I have an appreciation for life in general.  The real problem isn't so much about having enough moments; rather, it is about recognizing those moments and being able to make the most of them as they come.  

12:57 a.m.

Being read to.
     Over the last few months, I have come to notice that it is usually the little, overlooked aspects of life which really makes life worth living.  The simple things that can brighten a day in more ways than expected.  As I "rediscover" them (I say rediscover because I never made an effort to properly discover and chronicle them in the first place), I want to capture them.  I will not be able to capture them exactly as they are in the moment, obviously, but I can hope for the emotions linked to them to allow these moments to transcend their chronological limitations.  
     My first chronicled simple joy is, as you may have already noticed, being read to.  When I say being read to, I do not mean a professor, pastor, speaker or whoever reading for a large group.  That is more of a necessity of the situation.  What I am talking about is much more intimate.  Someone reads a work--whether it be his or her own does not really matter, but personal work does have a better sound--to just one or a few others.  Read it with meaning, emphasis, and passion.  Now, this is something which has really become a sure way in making a day enjoyable over the last week, though, by no means is it an everyday occurrence.  Yet, the fact that it isn't meant to be everyday and just tends to happen at the best possible moments is what makes those moments so uncharacteristically beautiful to me.  I close my eyes and sink into the soft, calming sea of language and rhythm.  
     This whole concept really makes sense looking back to my downloading the New Yorker Fiction podcast last semester.  Typically, I listen to short stories read by other authors while on long drives by myself.  They are incredibly relaxing to my mind.  Sometimes music just won't cut it in those situations.  The songs make me anxious, creating a need to get wherever I may be going all the faster.  Hearing stories being read (to only me, as I like to imagine it) soothes me beyond belief.  I become invested while still being alert as I drive.  Small poetry readings at coffee shops and wineries are much the same.  close, intimate settings make the words come alive as they dance off the speaker's tongue.  
     ...forget History homework; I'm going to listen to James Thurber's "The Wood Duck."