It’s been almost 30 years since I figured out — much to my surprise — that what I really wanted more than anything else vocationally was to be an artist. And I’ve spent most of the years since then explaining to myself over and over why this isn’t possible.
After enough reasonable explanation, I start getting numb to what I want. I forget what it feels like. I turn my attention elsewhere and tell myself that realistic people do other things. Maybe I can make filmmaking a hobby if I do really well for awhile at something I hate.
Doesn’t that make sense? I can make a few hundred thousand dollars a year as a real estate broker. How about that? Isn’t that more realistic? Sure. Why not. I’ll do that. It all makes so much sense. And it sounds so responsible.
And so I start burying what I know — every now and then, at least — that I want. Until somebody comes along and pokes a stick at something I try hard not to look at.
That’s what happened today.

Each loss makes me feel grateful for the irreplaceable ones I love
We live in Reverse World, where black is white and good is evil
Without real human connection, we’re just living in a simulation
Love’s closest counterfeit sounds like love but acts like selfish need
Chappelle is offensive and crude, but what he’s doing is important
Correcting an old error: there’s no such thing as ‘We the People’
Goodbye, Anne (2009-2019)
Living without human connection? It’s an empty life with no meaning