Yes, Murphy, as Barney lives, so do hope and joy; yes, just as surely as Barney will be forever resurrected.

The steps up to recovery are solid and easy. The climb up out of the Valley of Sloth is much less distressing than the shredding, nasty, slide down, and much less distressing too than the heavy and lonely bottom-muttering complaining I allow myself to suffer.

And just taking a few steps relieves this pilgrim’s burden. Yesterday I cleaned. Cleaning is my industry of penance. And after that I took Murph for a long walk. And this morning I woke up determined to crawl out of the muck-water and recover some industry and joy. Suitably, the sun is shining, finally. I found an old CD I made of happy dance music. I’ve already danced around the living room.

I’ve set up a canvas in the kitchen where I paint. And when I am finished here, I will go paint. I will turn off this computer. I will ignore the hours of work of data entry I should do. And, to the accompaniment of happy invigorating music, I will lose myself in the painting. I can barely wait.

I read Pilgrim’s Progress in University. Usually fond of allegory, the book was as heavy as the dusty pack on the pilgrim’s back. As with the briefcase in Pulp Fiction, we never learn – do we? – what was in that Christian Pilgrim’s bag. The burden of a heavy-handed conceit? The guilt of killing Christ? All of human fraility? The manuscript of Pilgrim’s Progress? The fear of nuclear war? Now that I think of it, Christian’s burden is a lot like Froddo’s. He can’t really put it down for long and he can’t give it to someone else. “It’s my burden. I must carry it on my own.” I loathed Froddo: I’m so important. It’s all about me. Aren’t my eyes so shiny? No, I must do it. It’s my burden. No, Sam. That’s a bad, Sam.

I think Froddo was so entirely disagreeable because he thoroughly reminded me of the Pilgrim Christian.

Meanwhile, to paint.

SS