The Logic of Sorrow

By David Luntz

My neighbor says the same thing to me in the elevator. It’s always about the weather. People always talk about the weather. My neighbor is a person.
QED: the weather.
I dream about my neighbor often.
Her face is sad. You might say it’s weathered.
My dreams tell me if we were together, there’d be no lies between us.
Freud interpreted dreams. He claimed they cannot be translated into a language represented by symbols. Which is another way of saying dreams are not really thoughts or even a language.
Maybe they’re like the weather.
Chrysippus was an ancient philosopher who thought dogs could reason: he’d observed them demonstrating knowledge of the disjunctive syllogism when figuring out the right path to take at a crossroads while hunting. Which is another way of saying their behavior reflected a logical language that could be represented symbolically.
My neighbor and I are joined by a different kind of logic: a thin membrane of sheetrock guides the premises and conclusion of our relationship.
I often hear her crying.
Sometimes, I think about leaving a box of shortbread biscuits outside her door.
But I like her sadness. It suits my interpretation of her.
I feel bad sometimes thinking like this.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, if my neighbor were happy living with me, we wouldn’t be honest with each other.
Which is another way of saying we’d probably end up talking about the weather.

Work is forthcoming in or has appeared in Post Road, Hobart Pulp, Farewell Transmission, trampset, scaffold, ergot., X-R-A-Y Lit, Maudlin House, HAD and other print and online journals. More at davidluntz.com Twitter: @luntz_david