Today was a Thursday. That used to mean lots of parties when I was at the University of North Carolina, but now it means one more day of child care before the weekend. I’m getting more and more used to it, but the concept of the vast weekend hours stretching out before us is still a little scary. In reality, we have lots of fun and Lucy is an absolute dream, but by Sunday night we are all pretty tired.
I see all these commercials about TGIF and how Wednesday is “hump day” and how Garfield hates Mondays and loves lasagna, but I gotta tell ya, Diary, we’re kinda living that backwards right now.
Speaking of which, I’ve had a few career things come up, things here in the Hollywood business that would otherwise be fantastic news… but simply scare me. I’m not sure if I want that much responsibility. I have grown and cultivated my little island here, and now I’m not sure if our Dream Job is even in my dreams anymore.
Oh Diary… I keep thinking about that paragraph I have pinned to the wall upstairs, about men’s waning desire to succeed and their productivity going way down after the birth of their first child. The article explains that the costs of competition start dwarfing the benefits of aggressive behavior, but couldn’t the explanation be a little simpler?
Maybe men stop trying so hard after they get into their late thirties because the game itself stops having meaning. By then, they have seen success, maybe even drunk from its chalice a few times, and found it lacked a certain profundity. Perhaps men finally have the spiritual maturity to admit they don’t really want what they’ve been after, and the courage to be okay with the ramifications of something so explosive.
Sure, I get it, we still need to put food on the table, to pay rent, to provide, but isn’t there a certain relief in downgrading your quest a little? It throws open the shades, crystallizes the opportunity to be a much more interesting person. Especially as an artist (if I may use that word, Diary), I think it’s exhausting to go your whole adult life without any separation between What You Do and Who You Are.
And despite all this, I still feel the pangs of wanting immense success, to be lauded with my wife as saviours of the genre, to return home conquerors. Very well then – like Whitman said – I contradict myself. And Whitman wrote that in his late thirties.
I don’t know. Perhaps the existential maw is like the tides at the Bay of Fundy, or that quicksand that opened up when you played “Pitfall” – at regular intervals, you simply have to grapple with meaninglessness, before moving on to ecstasy.
Oh, and today I pruned the orange tree and cleaned off those lawn chairs that were getting yucky. I also moved the next door neighbor’s plant over a few feet so it stops blocking all the light. I think that’s about it, Diary. Oh, and we had pasta with pink vodka sauce for dinner.