The other day I found myself at the store in the frozen food section watching a fellow bachelor
checking out "fellow" t.v dinners. I felt an immeasurable empathy (hmmm M. Pathetic good rapper name) for the stranger and myself. What is empathy for oneself? Not sure but the whole thing seems more of a painting that says it all than the necessity for words.
By the time I was loading groceries in my car I realized what a symmetrical black hole this was. Two men combing thin boxes of food for bargains and zeroing in on any descriptions that contained "fiesta" in its title.
Before I could finish loading the groceries I thought okay what would be the "happy" alternative? I would be at the store with a bunch of friends gathering salad ingredients for a feast? Everybody would be drinking at the house while preparing dinner with loud Motown music in the background doing a bad reenactment of the Big Chill. Why is everybody so sure dance moves during salad spinning constitutes fun.
Of course commercials sort out the most complex emotions "Doesn't get any better than this" "Good friends good times."
At that party I wouldn't be drinking. I would be on the other side of that manufactured joy hearing inside my head very beautiful but very somber Jewish chorale music from the latest mournful holiday. Not sure why I often find myself on the sadness side of the equilibrium of every moment, but in a weird way that brings me joy. I do love the perfect stasis of it. Or am I one those anti depression commercials in the making? BTW one of these days I'm going to sue those drug companies since those anti depression commercials are the things that make me suicidal more than anything else.
If I am given the choice of a whew hew hands over the head Saturday night get together with friends or me half comatose on the couch post chocolate ice cream orgy with my cat slung over my legs I have no clear answer. I loved the purity, the essence the soul resonating moments of the lonely man (or in this case lonely men) picking out t.v dinners. The profoundly fulfilling complete dry humping of a cliche versus fucking Juliette Binoche? Okay perhaps not totally accurate in my assessment of the choices at hand.
Oh Norman Rockwell where were you when I needed you.
And while I'm not quite yet the toothless guy in the deserted park running his metal detector after a musical festival, I may be close. I have flannel in my heart but Dacron polyester in my brain.
Am I only entertained and simultaneously disgusted by myself? A quadriplegic in the solipsistic two step?
(In the hyped up voice)"What do we have for him Johnny?" "We have The dream and simultaneous nightmare vacation package of himself. You'll get away by not getting away at on a 70 year cruise aboard the "U.S.S. You" Complete value of the package 18 dollars.
There is no sadness if there is choice in sorrow.
Every man is a fucking island cut off from his own imagination.
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