I'm going to jail, isn't it wonderful?

So said George Bailey. I'm not going to jail, but I'm feeling rather Bedford Falls nonetheless.

There's no accounting for mood shifts. Last week I finished a draft of my dissertation chapter on El Vez, The Mexican Elvis. My sister agreed to buy my condo and we both came out the better for it, my mortgage issues over and her in a great place to live. My grey baby was as cute as ever. Still, things crashed down into a melancholy mix of isolation, alienation, and regret. LA seemed impenetrable, the prospect of making friends impossible, and I seemed to myself nothing more than a long list of should-have-dones and wish-I-wases (wases is not a word, I know, but grad students (emulating established academics) are adept at coining neologisms, although these are usually more clever and abstruse than wases).

Why? And why now do I feel elated? Objectively, nothing has changed. In fact, I could pose an argument that things are worse. I've been done with the draft for over a week and have not put word one to paper on the next chapter. I've rebuked on a promise I made to myself that I would go out and experience one LA thing each week - a museum, a park, an area of town, whatever. I haven't even cracked the guidebook I bought. I finished a pleasure book while ignoring my dissertation buddies Adorno and Bourdieu. I've ridden my bike, but not enough.

And yet.

Isolation slips into integration. Today I feel lucky, fortunate for having friends and family, thankful that the heart is big and the world is small and that I can be here and still present in all the other theres that all the people I know inhabit.

Sure, Pottersville has better music, neon lights, and stiff drinks. But give me Bedford Falls today.