Bordeaux and Palmiers

You know that life is good when Tuesday afternoon at the end of September finds you on the beach with a cold San Miguel and a view of semi-pro surfers.

I live my life for me. I’ve tried living it for other people: my parents, my friends, the various boys who have passed through my life, whether they were aware of it or not. It’s impossible–I’m distinctly aware of my discontentment, and I never feel my efforts appreciated. And so I’ve stopped. And I live my life for me.

Although…

It’s difficult, when our lives become a sort of performance art of the crudest kind. When “Just ate an apple…” is given the same place of pride as “My sister is having a baby!” When our blogs and our Twitters and our Woofers and our AIM SMS AOL MSN… everything becomes just as important as everything else, which is to say, not important at all.

By virtue of me even telling you this, I make it even less important. The fact that I thought this, that I scribbled it down on the little Moleskine I still take everywhere (thanks, JMo), the page stained with saltwater and sand… that should have been enough. And yet, it’s not somehow.

I have to keep some things for myself, which is why I leave you this picture with no explanation. Find it yourself, if you like, or take comfort in the fact that you don’t know what it is, who it is, where it is, or why, in God’s name, it is so important to me.

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