I don't believe that I have posted the word "joy" here... I had to preceded it with "melancholic," of course.

I've fired my doctor and psychopharmacologist. I'm to see someone new next week. I found an "angelic MD" who believes (as did my doc and psychopharmacologist, but didn't want to do anything about it) that my pain is due to anxiety.

Since four this morning I've been listening to music. As young as nine years old, I wasn't listening to pop but rather Velvet Underground, Van Morrison, Zappa and the Mothers, Lennon, etc. the '70's, 80's and 90's brought new semi-alt bands but I haven't listened to much music for the past 15 years... I spent over $600 on iTunes today just grabbing a few old favorites (including the 1962 Leontyne Price Aida, which always makes me cry).

So odd, but I focused in, later in the day, on love songs. And I picked one which, if you've never heard, that you must purchase. It not only filled me with melancholic joy, but with melancholic youth (which may be the only kind of joy to be experienced when you're approaching 57 and realize that your skin is not so taught and smooth, your limbs not so lithe and muscular, your libido not so focused on 19-24 year olds and you begin (perhaps not everyone but I certainly have) to reevaluate just exactly who was the love of your life and who may have been your soulmate if a French Lit degree had not been a prerequisite for the role. Marry one of your high school sweethearts? There is one that I cannot stop thinking of. But that Is when my thinking slips back to young love and "the way that young lovers do"....

We strolled through fields all wet with rain
And back along the lane again
There in the sunshine
In the sweet summertime
The way that young lovers do

I kissed you on the lips once more
And we said goodbye just adoring the nighttime
Yeah, that's the right time
To feel the way that young lovers do

Then we sat on our own star and dreamed of the way that we were
and the way that we were meant to be
Then we sat on our own star and dreamed of the way that I was for you
and you were for me
And then we danced the night away
And turned to each other, say, 'I love you, I love you'
The way that young lovers do

Do, do, do, do...

Then we sat on our star and dreamed of the way that we were and the way
that we wanted to be
Then we sat on our own star and dreamed of the way that I was for you
and you were for me
I went on to dance the night away
And turned to each other, say, 'I love you, baby, I love you'
The way that young lovers do, lovers do, lovers do

Do, do, do, do....

--------

Van Morrison, 1968, Astral Weeks

---------

I knew nothing of youth or love when I first heard this. My lips had tasted no kisses of passion. But it wasn't too much longer, that magic summer of 1972, that I discovered passion of the mind, body and soul for the first time. But I have been thinking these past days and I have come two realize that I was all wrong – all wrong – to have been pinning that last ideal, the intellectualize girl, on my list of wifely qualities. Honestly? I should have been content with passion and love. I should have been content with half of my ideals, just as my second love, entering my bedroom for the first time and asking, "What do you do with all of these books?" was satisfied with my pithy response, "I read them." She was 16 when we first made love and, over the years, I have never felt such passion or love as I did with her over the years to come.

She married a construction worker who is, to this day, a low-wage construction worker. She stopped loving him years ago and they live apart now. We talk from time to time. We fill one another with memories and regrets. She sent me a photo. She is wearing a loose cotton dress with spaghetti straps, falling about six inches above her knees. She is still tall, lithe, svelte and endowed with long muscles. And another close-up of her face. The only disturbing thing about both photos is that she is wearing sunglasses – where are those blue eyes? I've not asked.

I felt good, but, yes, melancholic, listening to that music today. Music from 1962-1999, I guess.

My wife was odd, she only partially agreed with my musical tastes. She liked the artists but did not care for some of their more melancholic songs. When we saw Lou Reed in concert, she left her seat for some unhearing location when he began a 10 minute version of "Herion." Things in that vein (pun). No matter how danceable the music if the lyrics were even mildly depressing, she didn't listen twice.

But today I listened to it all. Yeah, a lot of it brought back thoughts of women that I have known. I was a promiscuous and an imaginative lover and I have no regrets about that beyond the fact that I cannot claim the same today.

There were some lyrics that I did not recall. I had to look them up. I accumulated 104 pages of lyrics in Word.

I can't say that this has been a a happy day, but I admit to feeling some sorrowful joy and memories of love. Just too many regrets to have caused those memories much joy.

Listen to some music.