J U L I E M A R I E WA DE
29
Domestic This Happiness is not the same as joy. (Or is it?) I want to know. We are talking tonight of how joy rises out of happiness, an extension like wings—or descends, a chandelier from a very high ceiling. “Isn’t it the difference between the kite and its tail?” “Or the ship and its sail?” “Or a single, whorled rose and the soil from which it grew?” Some of us have wine. Others are stirring coffee with musical spoons. We become easy with our voices and our gestures—everything a possible poem. “Happiness is the ladder that lifts us to the highest window,” you say, your hand softly cupping my knee beneath the table. But is joy the window or the looking in? Everyone agrees I am too persistent with my questions. Someone cuts the cake and refills the water glasses.
But happiness is not the same as bliss. (Or is it?) I want to know. “Bliss is fleeting by its nature. A shooting star, a—” “Solar eclipse.”