butterfly in the subway

I've been reading a lot lately. Not entire books, but snippets: Didion, Bishop, Kundera. But perhaps research, not reading, is the more accurate term of what it is I'm really doing. It's a transitive situation: information is control, information comes from reading, reading gives me control, control makes me happy. A temporary happiness, but then again (and think carefully), what isn't?

I've always been a firm believer that things will always work themselves out. That hasn't changed. Recently, however, I've been pretty engrossed with a psychology book that examines how humans perceive happiness, and how they plan (almost always) unsuccessfully for the future. In this case, control is an illusion. What I think will make me happy in the future, or rather, what the "present me" is planning for the "future me," may not be what I really want 10, 20 years from now. This also means that control is also not as beneficial as I believe. When I say things will work themselves out, it usually doesn't mean that I'll have anything to do with it. It's all up to chance.

Let's not reduce these thoughts to that living in the present bullshit. Every time I think of that, I'm reminded of those hipsters in NY (note: "hipsters" is a concept relatively new to me, being the Jersey girl that I am). Let's just say that as a control freak, I just have to swallow my pride and admit that I don't know what would be good for me. What I do know, however, is what will make me happy in the present. And that's a comforting enough thought, yes?

For a while, I've wanted to get away...anywhere, just far far away. And alone. I wanted to get a tattoo. I wanted a little pug puppy. I wanted to go to the range and just shoot the living hell out of something. There were so many potential life changes I could make, and at the time I truly believed that if I did each and every one of those things, I would find that little kernel of happiness. But now that things have started to settle down, I'm beginning to realize that I'm quite content just the way I am. I don't need distractions, or reasons to keep busy, or events to keep me from thinking inside my head. In the last few years, I was constantly plagued by things that just shouldn't matter (will things change? where will i go? is this really what i want?)--which is not to say that I don't think these things anymore, but the whole concept of "future" has become more abstract, and thus less imminent and imposing.

I was also feeling old, which is ridiculous, I know, but there it is. I even started wearing sunblock around my eyes on a regular basis to avoid wrinkles. And then, out of nowhere, I get carded in Duane Reade for a pack of Camel Lights. I showed the lady my ID, and it wasn't enough ("Give me." Glare suspiciously at me. Glare suspiciously at my license). A year ago, that would've been enough to offend me, just a little, enough to sting my hopes of appearing as a mature, sophisticated young woman who smokes her lungs black. But this time, I was actually happy! I look 17! I smoked the first cigarette I've had in ages on the steps today and gloated, but not enough for anyone to notice because it doesn't make sense at all, not even to me, not even now..but there it is.

(note: I just noticed that comments were restricted to bloggers. It is now open to everyone, but either keep it clean, or make it sordid enough to raise more than a few eyebrows. These are the rules.)