Some days pleasure eludes me. It hides in a kitchen drawer that I would never think of checking, the one with two lightbulbs and a sponge in it. Or maybe it's spending the day across the street with people with whom it's more simpatico--I can hear the laughter drifting over into the wee hours. Other days, like today, it smacks me right in the face as if it had been loaded onto a trebuchet. After which delicate weightless wispy seedlings float in the air about me just like they do in Avatar. And there are chimes, I think I hear chimes. And the aroma of grits, grits with Texas Pete. I don't question these things. You have to take them as they come.