A new friend recently e-mailed me a whole set of thoughts, but the crux of the 'comment' was the question, how does one know oneself? i.e. when I said a few posts ago that I didn't feel like me, what exactly did that mean, and how did I know? Well, I have to admit that I agree with said friend's rather flattering assessment that I am a very 'non-static' person. Nevertheless, there is a core sense that is me, a set of feelings and reactions that is familiar and identifiable as 'me.' Avoiding the rather philosophy 101 argument of how do we know we exist and aren't brains in a vat, I will simply say that I know myself. Many people mistake it for naivete, or call it being a pollyanna, but the concrete thing that I can point to as having changed over the past several weeks is my enjoyment of very mundane things. It first occurred to me while home in WV. I realized I was standing outside on a nearly perfect day, staring at the bluest sky possible, and feeling nothing. That's very unlike me. It's one of the first times that I realized perhaps something was wrong. It's not something I talk about often, because it's one of those things that when put into words comes out sounding cheesy and new-age-flakey. But I derive a very sincere sense of pleasure from a starry night or a warm breeze or a thunderstorm or the smell of honeysuckle. It's something that I consider to be a part of the essence of me. So when those things no longer generate a visceral reaction on my part, it's disconcerting. But I am happy to report that some days, not all days, but some, those things are back. Tonight I had a touch of a headache, still wasn't feeling entirely myself, but sitting in the back of travers's car with the windows down and the wind rushing by, I got that old feeling. I closed my eyes and my hair lifted off the back of my neck and goosebumps started to form. Call it what you like, but it's what I need to get through the rest of the crap.