The value of a life.

Why isn’t what I do “living a life”? Because I don’t consider it to be. I’m always vaguely apologetic when people ask “what do you do?” I shuffle and deflect and respond that I don’t do much, I kind of write, sort of, it’s nothing really. I dismiss how I spend my days and give the impression that writing isn’t really that important to me...

Negotiating the contradictions.

I’ve mostly quit smoking. Kind of. I’m trying. I read Allan Carr’s book “Easy Way for Women to Quit Smoking” last week. He’s quite the guru and the book is the bomb; this is the best I’ve ever felt about quitting, despite the fact that I’m still sneaking a puff or two every so often. And yes, I know that’s the road to ruin or at least the road to back to half a pack a day but for some reason or other, despite my change in attitude and despite the interesting things I learned about smoking, I just can’t bring myself to fully cut the cord, pull the trigger, break the connection. The good thing is that those puffs are starting to taste quite nasty...

In search of ubiquity (be the same).

It’s an oddity of the human condition that we seek to be both unique and like everyone else. We have distinctions that set us apart but we crave the commonalities that link us together. Lately, however, it seems like we’ve lost sight of the fact that we’re of a type. That differences are okay and unanimity is not a requirement of the human condition...