Thoughts From a Real Boy

There must be something more to life that just hasn’t clicked yet. How do you turn on fire or passion? I’m always making up things to look forward to. I’m continuously reinventing passions in my head.

I guess I have this fantasy about being unique or impressive, a bit so I’m perceived that way by others but also to feel those things about myself. Maybe I just want to feel excited about something. If a new project or subject comes along that excites me, I chase that thread (until my mind zips a way like a cat chasing strings). Despite a mountain of catalogued projects, it sometimes feels like the graveyard of unfinished work is far fuller than the birthing chamber of living art. Sometimes It’s just too daunting to summon something out of nothing.

Attention may be the issue. For example, I’ve been flirting with the idea of becoming a master sculptor. How can you flirt with mastery? I’ve had this fantasy about putting in the hours and learning to be a great sculptor for about two years. I’ve developed some skill, but the interest and excitement wanes before I can really scratch the surface. I can’t get the clay to move.

Another example: all this week and last I’ve fantasized about becoming an expert on dinosaurs or bats, seemingly out of nowhere. Sculpting, paleontology, chiropterology: these are things that take years of study and dedication. Disciplines take focus and follow through. Still, the high that the study of new subjects brings about is one I want to chase. Charts and documents provide me with unique and elite knowledge. In mere moments, I want to change my whole life and dedicate it to something different. I want to refashion my identity around a brand new subject. Did you know you can tell a fruit bat from a carnivorous bat by looking at its nose? It’s true. Long nose? Fruits. Mostly anyway. Some long-nosed bats are carnivorous. I was reading a book on bat biology late last night.

And then all of a sudden, something else comes along. This morning I saw a trailer for a new Pinocchio movie and now I’d like to be an expert on that. An expert on Pinocchio! What does that even mean? My mind starts racing and I think: well, Pinocchio is in the public domain, I could write my own Pinocchio story. Maybe a Jewish golem Pinocchio who is sculpted out of liquid magma and rides dinosaurs! Better yet, I could read every translation of Carlo Collodi’s original Pinocchio and write the definitive, authoritative history of Pinocchio. People will say: “do you see that guy there? He is the world’s number one Pinocchio expert.” Of course, I don’t have time for Pinocchio. I’ll have to spend my weekends volunteering at the Southern California Bat Sanctuary. Sorry to everyone who needs expert knowledge on Pinocchio but I just really can’t help right now. I’m sorry but that’s the truth. My weekends are booked until the Backyard Bat exhibit at the Natural History Museum ends. I mean I really believe that. It’s just bananas.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a curious person and that’s just who I am. Sometimes I wonder what I would do with eternity. When I was a kid it was something new all the time, just the same. One week I’d buy a yo-yo and lessons on tape on how to become a yo-yo master. The next week I’d be asking if I could go to some rare baseball card store or join a street hockey league. Did you know an autograph from Shoeless Joe Jackson is worth a boatload of money? It’s ‘cause he couldn’t read or write. I must have exhausted my parents. Once I took a class on bovine anatomy. Anyway. Let’s say I had eternity. Would I still want to gain skill and knowledge about new subjects? What good would it do me in the infinite void? Yeah, space and time go on forever but at least I’m an expert at drawing cows. That’s what I mean about there being something more to life. Maybe life isn’t about being the world’s best cartoonist or sculptor or Pinocchio expert. Maybe it’s just about joy and nature and other people.

Material things used to bring me joy: toys, and comics, and baseball cards. Sure, I still take pride in my baseball card and comic book collection, but they don’t hold the same magic anymore. There have been people who make me feel magic. They’re long gone now. Must be 10 years or so. But I still dream about it. I still dream about being alive and being able to see magic. Not rabbits in hats, but real magic between two people. Anyway, they’re the best dreams I’ve ever had. I have better experiences in the magic of dreams than in real life. Real people don’t make me feel too good. I’m not sure, maybe you need magic to be real. It’s just that most people make me feel inconvenienced or awkward or boring or uninteresting. “What’d you do this weekend?” “Not much, have you ever read Pinocchio?”

I hate hearing myself talk. I still dominate every conversation I have despite that. I should listen more. Most conversations make me feel like a living reflection of my fleeting interests and failed efforts. I used to be this explosive, skateboarding, adventure-seeking teenager. High school afternoons are all rose-tinted. I’d smoke in a Jeep with a senior I had a crush on while parked over the Potomac River. In those moments, it wasn’t a sexual thing. Maybe a little. But mostly I just liked living and I guess feeling life’s magic. I suppose I’d like to feel like that again, without being anxious or awkward or boring or worried. I’m open to that. Did you know in most versions of Pinocchio there is no divine intervention from the fairy at the beginning? It’s true. The whole thing starts with a talking piece of wood.