I saw the movie "Kinsey" today.
I enjoyed it immensely, though afterward I was left with an unshakeable melancholy.
I could blame it on the fact that the skies were grey today, or post-flu fatigue.
I could also say that I often feel depressed as of late, so nothing new.
It could also be the fact that today is my Sunday (I return to work tomorrow).
Sundays (or Saturdays pretending to be Sundays) have always made me glum.
I could also blame it on my usual...the whole broke orphan/narcissistic fracture factor/great crash of 2000 thing.
I could blame it on my poor diet, my lack of exercise...or just my old friend ennui dropping in for tea.
But today felt different.
Upon reflection, I realized that the movie triggered me into some kind of sad & soulful longing.
A homesickness of sorts.
You see, Kinsey was a guy who was on fire. His passion to discover drove him to make a contribution to the world of great importance. Sure, one could say that it's easy to get all jazzed up...or should that be jizzed up?...about sex but Dr. Kinsey was just as possessed with the task of collecting one million different species of gall wasp as he was about vulvas and vibrators.
I am possesed with little desire at all.
I long to be filled with fire and brimstone and zeal.
As a kid, I was manic with whatever I was interested in at the moment.
"At the moment" is key because the subject of my exuberance changed more rapidly than my underwear. One day I would be obsessed with the deep sea and the books of Jacques Cousteau. Next, I was out shooting pictures with my all manual Nikon FE and poring over books by Ansel Adams and Alfred Stieglitz. Then I would become interested in rocks and minerals and go digging in the backyard. People would ask, "hey Donavan...collect any cool rocks lately?" I would reply, "Rocks? That was days ago, now I'm into detective work!"...spyglass in hand, Sherlock Holmes stories under my bed. A few days later it would be magic, the Arthur Conan Doyle books gathering dust, replaced by card tricks and Houdini and abracadabra.
Sounds great, and it was...it gave me the well rounded ADD riddled 100 watt mind that I carry with me like heavy luggage.
One problem. Life does not reward those who flit from interest to interest like a horny hummingbird on the hunt for hibiscus. People who stick with something get places. Want to be a dancer? Dance. Daily. Don't give up. Bleed. Callous. Break an ankle or two, or at least a toe. Sweat. Buckets. Keep dancing, dance when it rains. Dance when you have the flu. Dance on the day your mother dies. Dance, Dance, Dance till you drop. Then, maybe, just maybe you might get a small role in an off Broadway musical. If you're lucky as hell.
See that girl in the chorus line? That's the girl who danced her ass off for the last twenty years.
She didn't dance for a week, then take up needlepoint instead. Oh sure, maybe she did, but she never stopped dancing.
I'm not programmed like that. I am a sprinter, not a marathoner. My parents told me to rest and relax, don't strain yourself! Stay in bed for a week if you have the sleightest tickle of a sore throat.
Gave me time to practice my magic and read.
Anyhow...I do love having multiple interests, but it's getting old.
I'm getting old.
OK, maybe not OLD...but when I look in the mirror, I no longer see that ten year old with the Houdini cape.
I see a 33 year old man, struggling, bored, depressed, totally devoid of the passion I once had.
Doesn't turn me on anymore.
Herbs? Homeopathy? Healing in general?
The only thing/s that still remotely hold even the smallest spark of interest for me is...
5. Psychology (50% Private Practice As A Shrink/50% Teaching and Writing)
I would put advertising at #6, but it would have to be advertising on a small scale, as in freelance, and only for companies I felt OK with, just like my pappy did it.
Did I just say pappy?
Where the fuck did I get that one?
Hey, anyone remember that chicken they used to have at Bob's Big Boy?
It was called Pappy Parkers Fried Chicken.
That was some pretty good fucking chicken.
I miss Bob's.
I think there's still one in Burbank.
There goes that hummingbird mind again. Christ, Donavan, just finish the post.
Anyway, shit, I guess I still have interests, sure I do.
I just don't know HOW to make them happen.
I feel like a flame that is about to go out, and oxygen is nowhere in sight.
Not in a dramatic, "Oh woes me, life isn't worth living anymore" way...been there....done that...I'm back.
More in a, "OK, mom's dead, dads cracked up and abandoned ship, no rich uncles or aunts to fund me, where and what the fuck do I do now?" kinda thing.
I have some ideas.
Many amazing things and opportunities come my way, but I am often so busy looking at how great my life was, I am unaware of how great it could be.
All I gotta do, to quote Dr. Phil, is "Pull The Trigger".
Stop making excuses. Enough looking through the lens, Donavan. For god's sake man...TRIP THE FUCKING SHUTTER!
(I just had to hit the backspace key, and my finger accidentally hit the i key instead of the u key...making it TRIP THE FUCKING SHITTER).
I guess that applies too, but I meant shutter.
As in photograph.
Which brings me to the above picture. I took it a few minutes ago, in near darkness. I was sitting on my bed, thinking about how I wanted to take more pictures and turn this into a bit of a photoblog..."It's too dark", my thinking mind said.
I grabbed my camera, left my excuses on the bed, and took a stroll.
Tell that to the moon and the trees.
No more excuses, I'm gonna make 1-6 happen.
One at a time.
Or all together.
Who says I can't.
And I'm starting to lose interest in me.
I'm gonna take interest in I.
Maybe I'll start by taking up dancing.
Right after I finish reading my Sherlock Holmes book.
In my cape.
Rocks and minerals in my pocket.
Scuba tank on my back.
Camera in hand.