It struck me tonight that earlier today/yesterday, August 23rd, marked a very profound one-year anniversary for Michael Tully. What began as one of my lowest days as an adult--slaving in the summer heat painting a huge house, wondering if COCAINE ANGEL would ever get finished, feeling lonely, worthless, broke, and ignored--somehow miraculously transformed into an incomprehensibly glorious dream.
One year later, I can confirm that it was just a dream.
Although it happened. It really did.
I got home from work the afternoon of August 23, 2005, and received an email that I had been fantasizing in my mind every single day for the previous three months. Actually, this email shattered my wildest, most outlandish daydreams, it really did. Of course, I did this knowing full well that it was a pointless delusion, that life could never--and SHOULD NEVER--be that miraculous, yet somehow, for some reason, my dream came true. I got home, turned on my computer, checked my Hotmail account, and there was that name, followed by that breathtaking message.
Oh, world, you are ferocious and brilliant, and I love you for the miracle that was that moment. I love you for the continuing miracle that followed, the natural flood of emotion so powerful that my body shook for months. And I even love you for the cruel, tragic collapse that realigned the world and restored it to its normal position. Life shouldn't be that ecstatic, no matter what anyone says.
Thank you, world, for loving me back.