Today I add ten drops of essential Happiness
—an oil with concentrates derived from ylang-
ylang and the bitter orange tree— to a flask
of reed diffuser sticks in water. We are
halfway through the month, soon halfway
through another year, and I know the old
longings that wash over me all over again:
for rest and love, the kind rubbed deep into
the bones of the body; for words
I can strike together for visible light. I'm told
I should regard my existence as nothing
short of a miracle—here, today, at my desk
by a window overlooking the boulevard.
I'm in the same building where last night,
in a class on literary form, flashing alarms
warned us to stay in place until the all
clear sounded, after a shooting at the student
center. There are scientists who have
supposedly managed to calculate
the number of probable times a human being
with specific traits and gene makeup could be
born (1 in 400 trillion), instead of becoming
just another anonymous, missed connection;
a serif, a trace disappearing in the thick
alphabet soup of time. Or imagine millions
and millions of tiny spiders slinging their ropes
and carabiners, descending through an opening
in the trees—You might feel only a movement
slighter than a hair on your arm; but what chance
one of them lands on the cheek of someone
who'll experience a massive allergic
reaction from contact with an arachnid, then
die before anyone can figure out why?
Hong Kong, 1988: hundreds of women
near full term begged their doctors to induce
labor, so their babies could be born on the 8th
day of the 8th month of that most auspicious year,
according to fortune tellers— which goes to show
we put as much store in chance and magic
as we do in science and numbers. Go ahead,
play those five combinations in the lottery.
Join another contest. Crack the fortune
cookie open and read what the future
has already brought: Destiny awaits!
but first, you must nap or snack.