Dirty hands

Working late tonight on the bazillionth self-inflicted writing project of my life, I'm grateful to believe in the mechanics of my job.

Some of my friends complain about working long hours for companies whose objectives they share but whose strategies they don't believe in.

I keep signing up to do this stuff because I'm certain that words work.

Leaving Flatland

I spend almost all my social life thinking fast, spinning, smashing into one face after another. Like a billiard ball. Clonk! Clack! Thud!

All abstraction; no time for anything more accurate.

Yesterday, on a hike, I lingered on the top of a hill while my friends walked away from me. They shrank to the size of my arm, then my hand, then my thumb, and then they were just a part of the forest that I happened to know very well -- bouncing hair, black coats, cocked elbows. They became concrete. I'd never felt so protective of them, or so proud.