I just spent the last hour writing a heartfelt piece...and just as I was finishing the very last sentence, my wrist accidentally hit the delete button and wiped out every single, hand polished word.
Every. Single. Word.
And here I am writing about defeat. Go know.
But here's the thing: my summation, that even I didn't anticipate still lives.
It was thus:
Pursue pleasure, not happiness, because as George Carlin once said, "The trouble with happiness is the minute it's over, all you want is more happiness."
The thrill of invention is what has to sustain us, rather than the race towards the "I'm finished line."
As a character says in my most recent play:
"Sometimes I confuse exhaustion with accomplishment."
Immediately after typing the words, "The End," I leap out of my ergonomic chair and stare out
through the blinds of hopefulness watching for the confetti tossing parade in my honor that will surely march up my front lawn, hoist me onto a float and carry me off to Accolade Land because I have earned it.
But where I almost always --no: always find myself is on the jagged lipped edge of the most slippery cliff, yelling out my own name, waiting for the echo that never, ever comes.
Even my own voice lets me down.
After that, I am left to sit alone, in the darkness of my full lit spirit, listening to the final movement of the Dissmissive Symphony whose final, punctuating crescendo is a resounding THUD.
I am more often than not, the prom date ignored, gripping onto corsage in my clenched fist that never comes.
Some think that writer's block is hell, well I'm here to tell you that being prolific is even worse, because the more I write, the more opportunity I give to all the anonymous assassins out there, who tend to take me out with one deadly flat nosed bullet.
While I almost always forget the key elements of my own personal convictions, right at the point where I suddenly find myself plummeting towards earth, the parachute of my own common sense bursts and plumes in a cotton cloud stuffed with joy and rescues me.
And as I sway slowly back towards terra firma, the clarity of my own heart reminds me, like a softly whispering parent, that the secret of life is to not pursue happiness.
It is to enjoy the moments of pleasure that are being offered to us, free of charge, like mail pretzel samples at the mall.
Perhaps the single greatest and only tangible miracle gift that actually exists is in the knowing that there is an abundance of pleasure readily available to us, wherever we turn.
It is in the sparkle in our lovers eyes, in the adoring smiles of our children, in the sheer joy of our about to leap on us, tail wagging dogs.
It is in every movie, book, song, poem, play or museum we visit.
It is in the far away scents that travel towards us, baked invisibly in the air.
It is, in my case, built into the pure invention of my own creativity. It is there even before I write the words
"Fade In." I just forget that as often as all the time. Ah, but remembering is the orgasm of forgetting.
We are, I think, always writing and re-writing our own epitaphs in a mad pursuit of declaring what our ultimate legacy will be.
In my case, like most parents, my legacy are my two sons, whose decency, generosity of spirit and kindness represent the baton that I have passed on to them, thus becoming in the end, my ultimate imprint: the sum of my most coveted attributes that will live on, like an eternal song, long after I am gone.
But as I grow older, it seems that I am trying to create, by the hour, by the minute a different kind of postscript for my own personal I Did list.
It's like there is one more one more definitive blast of wow that is percolating in my heart, ready to come exploding out of me, like the final eruptive, multicolor moment of The Macy's July 4th fireworks show, which will somehow be the final statement that I need to scrawl across the heavens right up there amidst the winking, twinkling all knowing stars and planets that will sooner than later, open it's welcoming arms to the vapor trail that will ultimately be me.
My second stage blast comet trail is what I want you to see and most of all cherish.
The soaring concerto that I have secretly composed for most of my entire life and kept well hidden in the orchestra of my soul is the music that I will need you to hear like a clap of thunder that will wake up all the sleeping angels, causing them all, in a moment, to fly, like a billion butterflies in a dance of spontaneous joy.
Because in the end that is the only finsh line that will really matters.
Fill your moments with pleasure---especially when you feel lost or empty or well beyond the point of darkness or despair.
Because defeat only means you think that happiness has forgotten you.
If you are busy indulging yourself in the big and tiniest moments of pleasure how will you possibly notice?