Wanting.

There are just far too many things I want. In a material sense. And therein lies much of my problem. For not only don't I have the wherewithal to financially attain the things that I want, but I'm just barely enlightened enough to grasp that those material things might scratch an itch, but they won't cure the spiritual psoriasis, as it were.

I'm smart enough to realize that the things I want won't bring happiness, but foolish enough to think that they might assuage discontent.

I'm smart enough to realize that they are, in fact, unworthy of my effort, but rather than set me free of their lure, it just makes me more depressed!

The part of the inherent silliness of my mode of thought, but apparently old habits -- or at least old modes of thought -- die hard.

The Dalai Lama is giving a free public talk on Sunday, and I'm trying to get up the courage to go on my own in none of my friends can be dragged along. It would be a pretty big deal for me if I succeed, given my loathing of solo action. Well, solo risk-taking. And what is a new experience, if not taking risks?

Sometimes I'm amazed by my own fear of new things. Sometimes, when the fear is particularly keen, I'm amazed at the things I'm afraid of... things that seem to me like they should be simple. Like finding my way to the 90th Street entrance to Central Park on the east side, right along with hundreds of thousands of others who'll be going, for instance. How hard can it be to follow a hundred thousand people? Why should that be daunting?

And, in the tradition of my beloved Kevin Lageman, I'll be covetous and envious of the ease with which other people do it! Silly me.

At least I can laugh at myself. It's the only thing that saves me from being pathetic; that I'm entirely aware of how ridiculous I am.

Sometimes I wonder if I haven't made huge mistakes in choosing my life's work.

I mean, I see some of the research that's being done at the Population Council, or I see, like I did tonight in the Discovery Channel documentary, the work of people out there trying to save endangered species, and I think, "They're doing something. They're making a difference."

The cynic or the critic or whatever you want to call it in me pipes in with, "and all I do is entertain people."

You know what, though? Even before that thought is fully formed, I know just how ridiculous it is.

I mean, what a blessing, what a gift it is to be able to lighten peoples' loads, even if it's only for an evening. In a world where someone can hate you just for having a certain color skin, or a kid can strap a dynamite vest to his chest and sincerely believe that's a free ride to paradise, I think I've been given one of the most precious gifts to be had. To make people laugh? To take them out of themselves? Or, more rarely but ever so much better, to open a window on themselves and let them look at themselves without judgment or the haze of rationalization and justification in which we all operate?

A blessing beyond measure, I think.

Still, I wonder if this talent of mine -- this blessing, the empathy I have for other people -- will always lead me back to performance. Sometimes i wonder if it might not lead me to some other kind of service... and what that might be?