varying degrees of light

Apparently writers know that "happy is nice, but it's hard to explain." Excuse me for a second while I scribble it in my notebook. I suppose I agree, but I'm not sure yet. We saw Public Enemies earlier today and walked out of the theatre, collected in a group in a moment of frazzled silence - confusion really - before rubbing our eyes to let them focus and unloading that, "That was the worst movie ever." Dane was already pacing around the parking lot, furiously smoking a cigarette. The next several hours were bound to thinking up the myriad of sins and flaws the film had. In doing so, I think we were attempting to digest it fully so we could wash the tastes from our mouths to let it go. It was fun. Our phrases were colorful and they were said with such angry vigor. And then the corn and chicken was on the grill, the guacamole on the table, the libations in hand and the evening was settling steadily away from muggy to clear and cool. Conflict is the main ingredient for story and, luckily, our lives have no shortage of it. Happy IS nice, and happy should be taken deeply and/but we're complex individuals grasped on all sides by individuals that we might find we're comfortable with from time to time, and maybe that has to do with the layers we build and the holes we dig, but what are we really doing but scurrying about frantically? Maybe another way to see it, to think of what we do, is that we're dancing constantly - slow or frenetic, but we are. At least. What's happy then? Are we happy when we hear a good song and see a good friend? Or is it when we realize that what we're doing, that all we're doing, is dancing?

Cryptic enough? I'm just having trouble organizing my thoughts. My body is worn, especially down at the tips of my toes. It feels good. Fireworks are magnificent. They're almost too dazzling and surprising for anybody older than seven, right? Especially in the middle of an empty tennis court, with racquet and balls and similarly equipped friends.