The Wavering Mind And Chasing Butterflies

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• April 12, 2026

“Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be”

One of the favorite slang words of the youth is being “cooked,” which refers to being defeated, finished, exhausted or in trouble. My version of this, for years, has been, “it’s over.” In this limbo chapter of my life which I detest because I thought all the hard work and struggle of my twenties would pay off in this decade, I cannot help but feel cooked to a crisp most days.

And yes, I understand I chose a near impossible field for succeed in. And yes, I realize, times are tough all around and life is exceedingly expensive and hard to get buy even if you picked the so called “safe” routes. I go back and forth from severe, crippling anxiety where I cannot even bring myself to work on my passion writing projects because Im debilitated with doubt and fear, to achieving a zen like calm where I’m certain that no matter what happens it will all be fine. Sometimes I swing to such extremes in the same day. Frankly, both states kind of worry me and I think I’m batshit insane.

Of course, I know all this already. Anxiety derives from the worrying and dread of the future, and depression comes from the regret of what you could have done in the past. Both toxic roads. Focus on today, what you can do in the now, and enjoy the sunshine and good company. But how do you avoid feeling cooked when the jobs you qualify for are vanishing and even the jobs you’re overqualified for overlook you, even though you’d rather run away to Central America than get one of these jobs paying 50K (before taxes) in New York City where you’d be working your ass off. For what?

In conversation with one of my cousins about the state of comedy and the future for any of us, which is now completely contingent on being social media influencers, I lamented any sort of future watching the careers of people funnier and more accomplished sink into the sea. “I’m not half as good as they are, and they are struggling. There was once a feasible way to be a working artist, but there is no middle class anymore. You have to be famous or you’re starving.” He offered some comfort that it isn’t just artists who feel the pain of the dissolving middle class but also said, “you guys are chasing butterflies.”

Any working artist, whether they are a writer, painter, musician, will tell you there is a sort of nobility to being an artist. I’m unsure I would use that word, “noble.” I think there’s nobility in being a nurse or a parent but artists are generally too selfish, and have to be selfish, to be considered “noble.” Admirable, sure. And frequently, awesome. What would life be without out? Life would be miserable without stories and songs. I wouldn’t want to exist without it. Having some sort of natural writing ability and passion, is it any wonder I went for it in this one life?

The worry is real. The episodes of stress (and drinking) induced gastritis that cause me physical pain make me hope I’ll just die so I wouldn’t even have to continue to be worried about my future. The calm and clear moments are real also. Where I am grateful for all I’ve accomplished, even if it’s very little at all. Or my appreciation for the friends in my orbit who are with me when I am writing something and say, “I think I’m going to try to raise money and film it myself even though I have no clue what I’m doing.” The amount of people who rally around my somewhat insane ideas gives me some hope in a relatively hopeless situation. Whatever will be, will be.

Persistence is the game. That’s what everyone says. Just keep going. Keep trying. Keep creating. That’s what it’s all about. And I don’t disagree with it. But I also can’t help but wonder what else I could be while I spend my time as a dreamer. Wasn’t it Sylvia Plath who lamented she could never be all she could be or accomplish all the things she wanted to, even though she’s regarded as one of the greatest female writers ever? In the end, she just killed herself like so many great writers.

Wasn’t that what I was always trying to do? Create a life that didn’t lead to suicide. Devastatingly, so many versions of my story end that way, and when I try to tweak the plot, it keeps ending like that. So when I see a butterfly, it doesn’t seem that wild for me to take a moment to chase it. So serene, beautiful, and at one with nature. But even butterflies get tossed by the wind and eaten by birds. Nature, like the art world, has never been kind or easy.

Perhaps that’s why the mind is like weather. Constantly changing from lows to highs, tears of rain and sunny days.