Settling back into to my normal pattern of sleeping too late, walking across town, then reading and writing all day while consuming one coffee and no food. But in marked contrast to normal, I had two face-to-face conversations, made one phone call, and sent two emails without even breaking a sweat. Who am I? (Me, I guess.)

The trail does change you.

Greece 2015


Understand this: we can despair of the meaning of life in general, but not of the particular forms that it takes; we can despair of existence, for we have no power over it, but not of history, where the individual can do everything.
Albert Camus, Nov. 1940 


If white yellows and black fades, is there some color in the middle that will stay forever?


There is one area where present/past me gains the narrative tug-of-war over future/present me: when I'm blackout. No second thoughts, overanalyses, or reinterpretations possible there. It's anomalous not having every word I've said, every gesture, available for instant replay in my mind's eye. Some things I've said and done are just out there, for good, with no tie to pull them back to me.


Time is ticking, clocks counting up the hours.
Why do we pretend a reversion to zero at the start of the day? It's an infinite accumulation.

May 2016


Here is the gift of experience: the knowledge—not surface knowledge, I'm talking deep in your bones—that this too shall pass. Like all fact, it's double-edged, but nothing gets you through a crisis of emotion like a little recul.

What are we doing here if not experiencing life to the hilt?


Deeply unsettled and desirous this afternoon.

Wanting and getting don't even exist in the same universe.

Photos are laughably poor substitutes for the feeling itself, but what else can I do?

Every shot is a slice to the self, opening a fresh little wound of light. Why is the drive always to rip ourselves apart?

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