One problem with living in San Francisco, there are too many wonderful people and too many things to do. In view of the recent developments, it seems like now I need to make time for a protest every weekend or so.
Great. So I went to a protest yesterday, and a week before that. Here are a few notes and thoughts about what happened then and in between.
This is Part 1 of a series about the stories we tell ourselves. Except, the phrase “we tell ourselves” understates their monstrosity. As if we can just choose to tell them. As if we can choose to not tell them, just like that. As if we can always see them for what they are – or ever. 
Continue reading “Stories are Monsters. Part 1 (of 3)”
It all began when Bill went to Iraq. Bill was tall, young, smart, handsome, recently single, and down-to-earth – for a software engineer anyway. I don’t recall Bill ever going to those video game parties the other guys were so fond of.
At Karen’s ballroom dance class in College Park, a girl introduced herself to Bill: “My name is Honey. As something sweet.” Bill responded: Continue reading “The Beginning of Tango”
Love letters understated 