Thank you to people who have given me comments on my book. I’m appreciative for the feedback and it’s encouraging to me. I haven’t been writing. I’ve been watching Olympics and playing Wii golf and making things in C. I’m not sure what I’m going to keep doing. I’m feeling pretty reflective tonight. I’m cultivating a certain mood. One day aside, this last month has been extremely balanced, which is no accident and does not come easily to me. I’m going to be an uncle in a few months. I want to be a good uncle. I want to be loving and present but only in ways that are desired. I’m tired of being angry with people. I think that I’m at a place in my life where I still think that, if people are to be measured, that there is a lot of suckage going on, in me and others. But I’m tired of measuring it because I don’t like the way it makes me feel. That doesn’t mean that stuff doesn’t suck when measured, it doesn’t mean that. All it means is I’m no longer measuring. Is this the fatality of growing older? I don’t think it is exactly. This is a release, and a surrender. You could call it a sadness except it without the emotion of sadness…it is a loss, an intented loss, a desired loss, a calculated loss. What I want now—what I want in a day—is balance, simplicity, and, essentially, art. I want the art of washing dishes, the art of shoveling snow. I want the art of writing and reading and reflecting and programming and building and creating things, and talking with the people who make sense to me, who are cut from the same fabric as me. I’m not sincerely interested in impressing other people, I have found, at 32. Psychologically, that’s not my real need. In domains where I have made half-steps because I was only in it up to the point where I proved that I could accomplish whatever end, that was about showing myself that my belief in me was well-founded. I don’t have to do that now…because I have over and over successfully proven to myself that I can do x,y,z…and I have over and over found that proof to be ultimately unassuaging. It doesn’t mean what I thought it would mean. I think I am now free to play. Everything I said was shit, was shit. I was as right about all that stuff as it’s possible for a person to be right. But it doesn’t make me feel good. This doesn’t fix anything. The world really is in a terrible shape. Parts of it are in wonderful shape. A lot of it is in terrible shape. That is all true. But I don’t feel like I will try to fix it. That is not, before anyone suggests it, some attitude that represents maturation or mellowing or growing up. There is a distinction between pessimism, apathy, defeatism, and yet still between self-care. I will never give up on the world. I also won’t delude myself about its state. What I will do, what I am doing, is—while I’m adding to it in the couple of ways I know how—I am drawing inward, letting a shore buffer me from that crazy world that I love and that, as best I can, I make things for. I have dreams that dogs I love are biting me. That imagery fits here. For some, the advice is not to bite the hand that feeds you. Right now, for me, it’s to protect your hand from the mouth of the dog you love.