Lazy exultations.

I've been writing pretty consistently, and I'm a page or two from finishing the first draft of the first of the hardboiled stories I mentioned in my last post. If I hadn't sidetracked myself tonight with exultation- over drink, over a relaxed Saturday night with the cat and my wife, over the impending visit of a very dear friend- I might be done by now.

But exultation, the kind that drives one to lift a glass when there's nobody to share a toast with, the exultation that drives off so much ingrained pessimism, the exultation that never comes often enough, even though so many of our societal influences, from parents to movies to those songs we love to much, tell us it should- that exultation showed itself this evening like a night-blossoming flower, and I have opted to revel in it rather than do much of anything else.

I exult in knit ties. I exult in fireplaces. I exult in Saturday drives with Tracey. I exult in idleness, in well-brewed beer, in comfortable sweaters, in orange kitties, in glimpses of old dwellings and cool drinks of water.