a human spirit having a human experience.

"Mike's Mortuary and Delicatessen, we deliver. How can I help you?"

I started coming to terms with my relationship to espresso some weeks ago, as I noticed my behavior and my difficulty sometimes in not turning off the highway an exit early to satisfy the craving. I feel much happier treating it as a managed addiction than as an occasional treat.

My life is mine, my own. I have no others; I am tied to no one. No one depends on me; I am free. I live only for myself. I am myself, always, and I answer to no one for who and what I am. I am always becoming, always realizing more of my self. I am not owned, I am not commanded. I am holy and profane, all the anger and love that human beings can summon for themselves and each other. I am, in the fullest possible sense of that wonderful, mysterious intransitive verb.

It's not entirely clear to me why, sometimes, all this sucks so hard. But it does, and it passes, and life continues. I suppose the real problem with freedom is that you then have to find your own challenge, your own passion, your own spark.

I have a bruise. Painless, but still a bruise: looks like maybe somebody grabbed my bicep hard during class yesterday. I don't bruise, really, so it's sort of intriguing.

Though I've signed up for a neat class at The Crucible, it's looking like the best way for me to create forward motion in my life is to find a new job. Ugh, inertia. But really, what's the worst that could happen?