Think Now! What is Joy?

Author and his wife, Yasmin Vereen

Think now! As fast as you can, what is joy?

My joy is brought on by the days, individually, hour per hour. There is no tomorrow. There is rarely even a yesterday; hour per hour.

The best, joyous type of day goes as follows; awaken in high alert. Where one jumps out of bed, ready to move, tackle the sun. Jump on him. Then a big hearty breakfast—for me, this is oatmeal, cold milk coffee.

Each hour after is marked with significance. First hour, movement, light, music. A long stroll and the practice of gratitude. Naturally, I can complain about anything. I try to work against this.

If I stay this way, flowers speak to me, dogs come to me for love. Eva, our puppy, stretches in the sun. My wife is kissed, thoroughly, with no hesitation. Every sound is in a major key, rain is no bother, sunny is a mindset. Then there is a simple lunch of bread and a cheap meat. In Brasil, Mortadella is everywhere. I could eat a pound of it a day. If in the mood, a mid-day drink; nothing laborious, just a quick punch to the gut. That's how I see it. Each hour becomes a new day. Some days, I take over 3 to 4 showers, wear three or four sets of clothes. I want to live many lives, but I am no Buddhist. This is the closest way I know. Hour by hour; I can be a gardener of sorts, planting, pruning, watering, here and there. I can be a homemaker, doing chores for the house and for my wife. These are the things that keep a man from being rotten, you see? To make yourself somehow useful, even if only to one person. Well, especially to one person. The world? Screw everybody else, just one person and you'll have done your job, I say.

Then, finally, a kind of poet in a way. There, of course, is dinner; which is really just a way of saying a party. I cook for my wife, myself, we eat and drink, discuss whatever. We try not to make a beggar out of Eva—the veracious dog she is. Anyways, then after dinner—dishes, belly full, eyes sore, guts churned, head foggy. Then I come right here, many nights. And I do this; I simply type. And when I can get to this day, the one I have described, when I can faithfully execute the day at will, with jubilance, triumph, and just the right mixture of purpose and non-purpose (because one can't always have a purpose every minute) then I say, it's been a great day, ain't life grand, and gratitude fills the cup and flows over. It can't help itself, it's life and life only, but damn, it's not such a bad deal. I become quite happy with it all.

But if I overdrink, the whole thing is rotten. And myself, as well as my day, is a much darker thing. Alcohol is a slippery ladder, and it is gripped by aching, weak hands and stumbling, unreliable footsteps.

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This is an excerpt from Like A Bird Knows To Sing, my second book of poetry, written m in the state of Minas Gerais, Brazil, between 2020 and 2022. You can find it here.

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JSV

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