Watching: My Dinner with Andre
Oh, the monumental heart and humanity that went into this weird little gem of a movie. It's palpable.
I have a list of errands and responsibilities that I keep in a notebook. I enjoy going through the notebook, carrying out the responsibilities, doing the errands, then crossing them off the list. And I mean, I just don't know how anybody could enjoy anything more than I enjoy reading Charlton Heston's autobiography, or, you know, getting up in the morning and having the cup of cold coffee that's been waiting for me all night, still there for me to drink in the morning, and no cockroach or fly has died in it overnight. I mean, I'm just so thrilled when I get up and I see that coffee there, just the way I wanted it. I mean, I just can't imagine how anybody could enjoy something else any more than that.
I went back and forth and back and forth and still can't decide: do we get at the meaning of life by consciously seeking or simply by doing? Is there one way? A better way? Does it matter? Is the meaning there at all, and how would we know if we found it? How could we comprehend?