I see her decision to go out with friends, to lunch with a male work acquaintance, to knit, to sleep with her back to me as meaningful, as a statement about me.
Irony posits two realms: the eternal, or divine, and the temporal, mortal, physical. We live in this world with its laws and constraints, its culture and bodies.
Isn’t thinking an action?
Me, I will admit without hesitation: I don’t like to travel.
Since I was a little boy — like most kids, I think — I’d been interested in infinity.
How, alas, does one excavate oneself from such careening thoughts in which truth is temporary, suspect, and often useless?
It all begins with a number.
My sister died about 14 months ago.
I’m sitting this morning in a café in San Francisco. I look around and I’m struck that almost everything I see is not only man made but is either for sale or in the service of selling.
The banal is beautiful.