The Lost Oasis

by Steve Lazarowitz

I am reminded of the Alfred Hitchcock movie lifeboat, in which a group of people, stranded in an inflatable raft in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean are forced to survive day after day, floating upon the very substance they so needed. I feel this way all the time.

I live in a world of almosts. I'm almost comfortable. I'm almost happy. I'm almost a writer. I'm almost out of debt. Of course, each of these circumstances is a matter of perspective.

I'm obviously a writer. If not, I do a heck of an imitation. But my writing career is certainly nowhere near where I pictured it to be, many years ago. I'm older, wiser and in many ways more sensitive, but I'm still not famous and I wonder if I'll ever be a household word, even among fans of the genre I write.

I physically have most of what I want, yet there's always another little thing that I would like to complete my collection. It never ends. That's why advertising is so effective.

Yet deep within me, is a restlessness, a voice of reason and doubt that says, maybe I'm missing the boat altogether. Maybe there is something missing from my life that is so basic, I can't see it. Perhaps I'm surrounded by so much of what I need, that what I really need is being kept from me.

Is it some sort of conspiracy? Are we intentionally being kept this way, so we'll be good little consumers? Did people feel this way before advertising was quite as intrusive as it is now?

I look around my too small Brooklyn apartment at my surround sound system, my computer, my DVD and laser disc collection, my bookshelves (an overflowing wall of words), my television, cable box, my nifty reclining sofa with heat and massage, I have it all. I even have a parrot that talks and a live-in girl friend that cares about me. So from whence does this discontent flow?

Is it something I'm missing now, or something I've always been missing I crave? Perhaps everything I've acquired in my entire life is there just as a happenstance, an attempt to fill the ever-present void. If this is the case, does everyone feel this Void, or are some distracted enough to not really notice it most of the time?

I see the thread, the hole in my reality and trace it back to its beginning. Through two marriages and high school, it was still there. I allow my mind to wash back further, considering ancient memories the way a wave laps the shore. Was I whole then? I don't believe so. Indeed there is no time in my life I can grasp that leaves me feeling satisfied. What does this mean?

I'm not sure I'll ever know. But somehow this yearning, this searching, this emptiness has defined who I am. It drives me forward, keeps me thinking, makes me write. Perhaps the missing element is really a hidden gift, driving me forward to make the most of my life, where other people might stop and be satisfied. Perhaps I don't want to feel whole. Perhaps I wouldn't know what to do with peace.

So I search, ever-alert, taking different routes, attempting things that are sometimes considered bizarre by those around me. Is the missing piece of the puzzle in plain sight? Would I know it if I saw it? Would it benefit me if I ever did find it?

Or is the emptiness itself what I'm trying to find?

I can't answer the question myself, so if its okay with you, I'll keep looking just a bit longer.

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