Why?

This image of a plastic Smurf has made me happy for two weeks now. It's my screen saver at work. When I walk away from my desk and then return a bunch of happy blue faces greet me. 

Why? Why do we like things? Why is K. drawn to science and why am I drawn to images of toys? Why am I compelled to tell stories about these plastic, silent beings over and over? 

I am about 15 pages into Lynda Barry's new book: What It Is. I am not exactly sure I understand what I am reading, but it has a lot to do with the kind of questions asked in the paragraph above.

Usually when I ask these questions it sounds like I am putting myself down, and I'm not. I just feel like there is some elusive magical happiness that evolves from the practice of being oneself. 

If the Smurf had a title it would read: "We are here for you". or "You can depend on our truth". or "You can count on us." The Smurf or any of my other toys can't speak. They never say the wrong thing. I always understand exactly what they mean. 

So, K. (see blog at the top of the page titled "Smarter than Da Vinci"). (but did I spell that wrong?, sorry). What is the title of your sculpture and if it had words what would it say to you, and can you even do that with what you are doing, or is the language different? Like the unspoken language of leaves or amoebas?

Ponder, ponder, little blue Smurf. wow...