For the Love of Matinees

For the Love of Matinees

Curiously, people wander from place to place, thing to thing, moment to moment, person to person. Life, it seems, is quite the endeavor, and this, of course, excludes all of the true necessities of eating, sleeping, shitting, and accumulating the means to be able to then do all of these things required for life. The challenges we face are solo endeavors toward or in the name of some higher caller, some unknowable aching, some answer for the never-ending search to find the answer to the overwhelming question of why we’re all here. If I do exist, as an autonomous being, freed or perceptually able to comprehend the semblance of freedom, then why am I here? What are any of us doing here? This grand play or experience called Life is what some gurus claim as the ultimate form of being. To be human is to be pinnacle. I am no guru, and so, I am not enlightened to such an extent that my existence feels so … so … penultimate. I am in the audience.

And what then do those same gurus make of the possibility, nay probability that life, intelligent life spawns and exists elsewhere beyond Earth. They, I would assume, would say something to the effect that all of the intelligent life in the universe is part of the same whole that we humans, the pinnacle of intelligent life here on Earth, are privy to. And about dolphins and orca and various primates? Honestly, I don’t really think that I care except that I am constantly told that I should or need to care, but then I feel dissatisfied by whatever my life currently is. “Do what you love,” they say, but what about the necessities? I mean, sometimes, right?, you really must or ought to do things you may not love before you find the thing you really do love or before you are good enough to get paid for doing whatever it is that you’ve discovered you love because we all gotta eat, need somewhere to sleep and shit, right? I probably just don’t get it.

I mean, matinees are cheaper because the showtimes reflect the less-desireable times of day for the ideal theater-going experience. Or is it about providing a cheaper option? If the ideal is prime time –sometime after a reasonable dinner hour but before the night has become late– then what does the matinee time really say? The performance is less than ideal? The people who attend are less than ideal?, subprime, bottom-feeding nobodies? I watched a video online the other day, and the “creator” had placed various lines of BIG TEXT throughout the thing, and the “creator” spelled monkeys as such: monkies. A grown-ass man with an ungodly level of eyes watching his nonsense spelled monkeys, monkies. I digress. In Seoul, I love the “matinee” showtimes because yes, they’re cheaper, but also, they’re of the wee hour times at the darkest of night.

I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know how to do whatever it is that I want to do. Writers so often speak about how there’s this thing inside of them or how they see this thing and then just (so effortlessly) represent the thing on paper with words. This isn’t supposed to be this diary-type writing. It’s supposed to be an exercise related to today’s writing prompt. But for some reason, I’ve found myself here. Perhaps due to laziness in my attempt to simply write today, but because I’m too lazy to put in real mental effort to get to where I’m trying to go, I’m here, in the diary-type zone. Perhaps due to fatigue because I’ve been so lazy in the past, and I’m out of shape. Perhaps due to something going on inside me that I need to address. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Either way, it all feels so daunting. This desire of mind to be a writer all seems so wanton. I can’t seem to quit, but I can’t seem to push forward. I don’t feel stuck, however. I feel impatient. What does that impatience look like? What’s the picture in my mind? I do not know. If I were a good writer, I’d know how to put it into words, paint the feeling with words. Perhaps I’ll try. Perhaps I’ll not try and forget it. Perhaps, I should try?

It’s like riding an escalator that’s just a bit too slow. It’s like being stuck in traffic while driving to somewhere you really want to be. It’s like taxiing on the tarmac in a plane when you just want the plane to reach the gate so you can get off and pee. It’s like leaving a matinee showing and bumping into an old nemesis who’s entering the theater for the prime-time showing. It’s like seeing the bus pull away from your stop right as you turn the corner while running towards it.

It’s like I just keep missing it, but I don’t know what it is.