He could be ruined again and again by hope.
– Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay
I am grateful for hope, despite the fact that it has betrayed me over and over. I’ve tried to extinguish it to make things easier for myself, but it always lives in my heart.
I wrote this to Margo of the Three Weeks newsletter, who asked that her readers tell her something they’re grateful for. In return, she sent me a book of Stefan Zweig stories, a postcard, and some candy. It was a worthwhile reward.
Everyone has their own project that they’re doing, mostly, like, for themselves, you know? Just so that they can accomplish something.
Christian Flores, you are an inspiration.
Cristiano Ronaldo kicked the soccer ball, but he may as well have kicked me in the stomach. The only thing about which I am fiercely and unrepentantly patriotic is also the only thing at which American exceptionalism has never allowed this nation to unconditionally succeed.
I really, really, really don’t like doing laundry.
I admit, it seems a little weird that I would post just a few new entries to my blog after so long away, only to then disappear for over two months. Again.
The thing is, this time, there was a reason.
Picture the scene: it’s mid-November, the middle of a gorgeous fall in New York City. (You know, except for that whole devastating storm thing that happened a couple of weeks earlier.) It was not yet cold and wintry enough for me to talk myself out of riding my bike to work, so I hadn’t. It was midafternoon and I was on my way home, walking my bike across the street onto the bridge.
Sometimes, many people don’t know how to drive in NYC. Annoyingly, one of the things that these people like to do is stop in the middle of a crosswalk. This is maddening in any situation, but it is especially galling when that crosswalk leads onto the Brooklyn Bridge. I assume that this guy had never heard of it before, because that’s the only reason I can imagine for his failure to stop at the proper place.
I had to cross the street in front of him, in a space that was narrowly large enough for my to fit through with my bike. Sadly, I miscalculated, and accidentally nicked his bumper with my pedal.
Apparently, that showed him that I am a fucking faggot.
Drive is what happens when Lost in Translation and Oldboy have a baby.
My personal philosophy has long been to not regret. My basis for this is fairly simple: given the assumption that the total outcome of your life’s decisions has led you to where you are, if you are happy, then you have nothing to regret. After all, even the bad or “wrong” decisions you made were part of what got you to a happy place, so there is no reason to regret them even if you recognize that they were incorrect.
I certainly don’t mean for this to be the sort of thing that everyone takes to heart; there are dozens of reasons for any given person to disagree with me, even if they are by my standard perfectly happy. However, for me, it has worked. I have made plenty of incorrect decisions in my life, but the place where I resided was, after a fair number of bumpy spots, generally happy.