I leave the dusty, dark recesses of my apartment to drop off a big box for the charity-thrift up the street. I love to go there and leave a huge donation and walk out empty-handed. It makes me feel freer, lighter.
Outside my door, the neighbors are throwing a birthday party, with chips and cheese and Mexican music and a giant sponge-bob bouncy castle. One of the boys offers to open the gate for me, though my box is surprisingly light.
Looking out at the mountains and feeling the ocean breeze I am suddenly caught up in a perfect moment. There are a smorgosborg of joyous beings all around: bicyclists, cute dogs and their beaming owners, hip sisters towing sassy siblings, and lesbians kissing.
I am thinking of Sartre, how he had a character who deystroyed her relationships by trying to force all moments to become perfect moments and being disappointed with anything less. This is an exaggeration but to some extent we all do this, try to force our expectations on a wedding or a prom night. In the same postmodern way that there are as many ways to look as an object as their are people to look at it, the future moment will never quite have the texture that you expect of it. But that’s okay.
Because these perfect experiences that can you hit you when you are solitary and doing the most mundane chore, these simple, blissful moments, are what make life worth living.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with the bouncy castle.