I don't generally put my own thoughts here, but after seeing the "Things We Want" the other night at a small theater in midtown, (directed by Ethan Hawke and starring awesome actors from "Little Miss Sunshine" and "The Station Agent"), I wanted to write:
Ah, the quest for happiness. What is it? What does it feel like? Who does it feel like? Am I constantly in a state of change; ready to seek out the other, the one thing that doesn’t quite feel like right now? Do we all do that? Why do I lose sleep every night over all of things that I wish I had done, wish I had said? Why do I repeat this dialogue the next night – those last minute should have, could haves – instead of stepping up to the plate? Maybe that’s what dreams are for? How is that we obsess over things only to change, only to erase that product, that feeling, that comfort?
Fuck the questions, I want some answers.
I used to go shopping. Big shopping. I would drive to the grocery store; find just the perfect spot on the blacktop parking lot. List? Check. Cart? Check. Wallet in my right back pocket? Check. I’m there, sifting through product under fluorescent bulbs; a random person walking past on a cell phone, “Do we buy the toilet paper with hearts or zigzags?” I wonder what they bought. I choose the same things over and over again – some for me. Some for other. Those items, as if a metaphor for life, were always in the house. Pierogies? Check. Tortillas? Check. Biscuits? Check. Comfort. Love. Being aware, yet unaware of what we feed – physically and metaphorically – our bodies. Then one day, it’s gone. The smells don’t waft the same, and the drip of the coffee pot doesn’t percolate as long now that there are fewer cups to brew. It’s just life. Changing. New comfort, new smells. New favorites.
Life is kinda like my relationship with a frozen bag of brussel sprouts. The water would bubble, then boil, and one by one they would melt into the steam. They are good for us. The vitamins, the fiber. I used to eat them so much that one day, they smelled like feet. I remember one morning, just before the humidity hit its full peak. I sat there at the long cream and black table, salted the vegetable just so. Something was off. I gagged. I gagged again. I lost what little I ate. I never had them again. I wanted change. Now I eat peas.