What do you want?
What do you want, what do you want. What?
Do I believe in life's purpose or some sort of ethereal energy that surrounds us to help us attain greatness? Bah, probably not. I'm not even sure I'm asking 'What are you seeking?' in some sort of new agey way to stir a 2014 enlightenment.
Just, What do you want?
We entertained an old friend for a couple hours last week, and his super cool girlfriend, and I caught myself talking about squirrels, and how I wished that I could find some sort of storm savaged squirrel nest; I could see myself with a little pet squirrel that sat on my shoulder while I shelled and fed it pecans. Perhaps it would shake its tail in irritation at passers-by. Okay, I didn't go into that much detail, but I did happen to mention a guy we met once that had a pet squirrel. And I admired my new friends ability to nod and be polite at my talk of domesticating animals that should have every right to live in the wild, while not commenting that I was wrong or really strange. Because they're park-service/hippie/biologists, and they could've created a debate. Instead, they agreed that squirrels were cute, and I felt happy. And then, later, I wondered if I said the wrong thing, as I often do.
So I guess I want a squirrel. And I'm saving up for a sectional sofa, something in a nice gray, but not a new sofa, just a Craigslist near-new one. But part of me wants new. Part of me wants a new, free from other people's lingering energy, piss, and scabies sofa, fresh and delivered, peeled of the plastic by me, myself.
I shake that part of me off, because that's also the part that wishes I had more common sense. The part that wishes I was smarter or better in some way and did something brilliant to a afford such a sofa. I focus on the practical person who saved $280 in a box for a sofa I won't have to make payments on. By summer I'll have $400, and a great deal from someone who's moving or getting evicted.
What else is new? I fell asleep on New Year's Eve, due to a disastrous concoction that was supposed to be a homemade margarita gone wrong. I fell asleep at 10:30, snoring on the couch, while my family watched It (the clown movie). This week when we ate Mexican, I couldn't look at a margarita. Not my friend.
I read Jane Hamilton's Book of Ruth. The entire book was a terrible train wreck. I love Jane Hamilton, she's great, but whoa. And this one after reading Fall On Your Knees- also deeply disturbing. Now I've found a copy of Dear Cary by Dyan Cannon at the Goodwill store. I need something frivolous and light for a change.
And maybe that's just right at the heart of it all. What do you want? Does the answer necessarily have to be something deep and meaningful? Do some people just not have it in them to contain deep and meaningful answers? Could it be that often people are looking for an exaggerated sense of purpose? How do brains work; are some folks full of depth and life and meaning, and others satisfied by menial tasks, repetition, and squirrel-love? Why do people think so much?