Sunday, August 29, 2004
Today I sat for awhile on the patio (that's what I'm calling my piece of alley in the back) and read my giant "American Elf" book (hit that link, on the left). I'm slowly chewing my way through it. A fair number of the strips are about James wondering why he keeps doing the diary; how hard it is to come up with something worth recording every day, and the nagging question of whether it's really worth anything. As a reader, that question is easy to answer. The diary comics, taken as a whole, represent something larger than just day-to-day existence. They show the rhythm of a person's life. It's beautiful, taken out of context. I can't help but feel that having a record like that, one that people read and experience on a thousand different levels, give James' and Amy's and their friends' and family's lives a depth of meaning that others lack. I like reading and watching movies because they take me out of myself, to somewhere else. I caught myself staring off into space today, thinking of walking through the snow at dusk somewhere. Suddenly I was back in my apartment, sitting on the floor with a numb butt. What gives meaning to a person's life? Is it sharing it with other people? Is it doing the things you dream of, but maybe fear? I like my job. I like my cat, and my little apartment. I'm content, and for the first time in ages I'm hit by random waves of happiness, rather than despair. Still, am I going to be sitting alone on the floor in a year, thinking of somewhere else?
it's an existential comedy
it's an existential comedy
