I realized it re-reading the birthdays - I'm exhibiting a mindset here.

I started this trying to note every kind of little brilliancy I ran across, because life's a lot harder if you don't look at the good parts. There's always something good going on. From a child peeking around its mother's skirts into your eyes and smiling, to a well argued counterpoint that frees your point of view, brilliance shines through the cracks of the world constantly, and I believe I'm better when I squint right at it.

With all the variety in the splendor I can see if I look, I'm troubled that when I come here I keep writing the same damn plot line:

• Frank is in some public situation, close to, but not quite, ordinary.
• Some toothsome lass enters, perceptibly nagged by something. Frank is distressed; his jaw squares manfully.
  
• Frank exhibits some minor courtliness, aimed at quietly mitigating the troubles of her day.
• Toothsome lass displays some mix of confusion and appreciation, briefly, endearingly, before disappearing forever.

Now, I'm not going to apologize for my stalwart work in the tragically underserved community of toothsome lasses. I find it as rewarding as you might guess, or almost so, and I'm not going to start regretting the way that I'm wired at this point.

But it's not the only brilliant thing happening around me, I know this. If my writings start to narrow to that, I have to think that I'm forcing it - I'm squinting too closely at one particular peephole onto the beauty of the world. When I look at the things I've been eager to get written, and finding that damn plot line in every one, it's worth considering the chance that I'm seeing things that aren't even there. It's possible I've been I misinterpreting things said and done just so they will line up as plotted. Wouldn't be the first time that's happened - hell, we all slip into that on occasion.

I hate to think I'm misinterpreting, for example, how I found the express lane to a beer during a blackout. I like to think that worked brilliantly because I was kind to someone on an unkind day, but it's occurred to me that I may have just gotten kid glove treatment so I would stop creeping out paying customers before they even got to the door. No point in overexamining it, but I have to admit there's a chance.

So I'm tossing the notes about how haircuts are better when the stylist is crying, and how a woman's face looks when she's led to believe she's wriggled back into her dress backwards after her little stop before the party. Among other stories of the kind I've been meaning to write. If I've been warped, at least I've been enjoying it.

But I'm going to try to look harder into butterflies and architecture, or whatever else that's brilliant that ain't girls. The cosmic balance requires it, and I think I'll still find things to write.