I should preface with this: My job as a freelance medical writer, while perfect much of the time, letting me work at home and see my kids a lot, sometimes involves a feeling of despair when travel abroad is imminent. This might sound ridiculous or phony. Continue reading “A rendition of bliss written while slightly intoxicated in Madrid”
Two days ago I turned 43. An age with no consequence whatsoever, other than offering an opportunity to obsess over one’s age. Which, come to think of it, will be the main function of all the rest of my birthdays for the rest of my life.
This is the second of hopefully 10 Turbo Book Reviews helping me resolve my Mid-Life Reading Crisis. As embarrassing as it is to make it known that I’ve gone months between reading the books that I’ve announced I intend to read, I’ll soldier on.
Meurseault takes his mother’s death in stride. He blinks in indifference as his girlfriend asks him whether he loves her. He barely reacts when he shoots and kills a man. He makes no effort to save himself from execution. He concludes with a shrug that there’s no soul to save when execution is imminent. There’s not much to like. Continue reading “‘I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day’: Thoughts on The Stranger”
Two weeks ago, Quinn and Sawyer, who have birthdays 18 days apart, got a butterfly kit as a gift from their aunt: two cups with five caterpillars each, with tan muck at the bottom that they eat. Continue reading “The Brief Life of Butterfly Number 2”
My first experience on a roadway in Delhi was on an expressway of chaos in a glorified golf cart, a tin can on wheels. Continue reading “War, peace and anarchy on the roads in Delhi”
I was just on a flight and sat next to a guy and his son. The boy looked about 5, close to the age of my older son. As we chatted, the dad reminded me of me: thoughtful but not doting, attentive but still keen on carving time out for himself. He’d been watching a movie on an iPad while his son played a game on his iPad. Continue reading “I saw myself in seat 37F. It wasn’t pretty.”
This morning Quinn got up barely past dawn and immediately asked for markers and white paper. He wordlessly sat down at the art table. Half an hour later he’d finished a book of ‘Dsins.’*