I'm back, for the most part.
I knew I would be. And I knew the respite would be brief.
Suffice it to say that I go through cyclical periods of what some people call "the blahs," what Winston Churchill called his "black dog" and what I know is depression. I see no reason to dance around it or euphemize it.
The important thing is that, like everything else, it passes -- at least for me, and in this I consider myself lucky.
The lows can get pretty low, but they give way to highs of equal intensity. But neither lasts, and I haven't needed medication to help the circle along. Truth to tell, I wouldn't even consider that approach. The roller coaster ride can actually be fun in a weird way, now that I've been on it so many times.
And so here I am.
It's a rainy day here. I'll go to karate class, and I'll read and nap upon my return home.
This day was made to order.
I'm in the middle of a great novel by Herman Melville, one of my favorite authors. No, it's not "Moby-Dick," the novel that sank his career like the white whale sank the Pequod. This one's titled "White-Jacket; or, The World in a Man-of-War." It's based on Melville's real-life experiences in the U.S. Navy, and was the last book he published before "Moby-Dick." After the whaling novel, the poor man couldn't give his books away.
When he died in 1891, The New York Times spelled his name wrong ("Henry Melville") in its obituary. The obituary writer for another New York newspaper wrote that he thought Melville had died many years earlier.
Coincidentally, it was depression, a "damp, drizzly November in my soul," that drove Ishmael, the narrator of "Moby-Dick," to the sea. And when today's damp, drizzly April day gives way to what is supposed to be a fine day tomorrow, I'm heading to Manhattan for one of my long, long walks.
It's about time to set sail.