Tag: Psychology

Homeful (Jan 29 2026)

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In which Our Hero lands. 

Today… I bought a house! 

A home, to be precise. (It’s an apartment.) 

It’s in New York, a block from Central Park. 

It’s big enough for a family, and gets great light. I’d love to live with roomies 🙂 

Here’s what happened (all numbers are approximate). 

  • I arrived at 11:27 for a 12noon closing. 
  • From 11:30 to 11:53, my attorney walked me through the financials.
    • One fun exchange:
      • “This was more work than I expected,” he said. “Do you want to increase my fee?” 
      • “No,” I replied. 
      • “Fair enough.” 
    • And another:
      • “I know people,” he told me. “You’re smart. You went to Harvard.” 
      • “I went to Yale,” I replied. “Don’t insult me.” 
      • He laughed. 
  • At 11:53, the title company transfer agent arrived. 
  • From 11:53 to 12:10, I signed some necessities (her notary book, for instance). 
  • From 12:10 to 12:25, we waited. 
  • At 12:25, the vice president of the co op board arrived. He brought soup for lunch. 
  • From 12:25 to 12:35, the vice president and I signed a few documents. 
  • At 12:35, the attorney for the co op arrived. 
  • From 12:35 to 12:45, the attorney and the vice president and I signed a few papers. 
  • At 12:45, the president of the co op board arrived. 
  • From 12:45 to 1, the president signed a few papers. 
  • From 1:00 to 1:17, we waited. 
  • At 1:17, the lawyer for the bank arrived. 
  • From 1:17 to 1:50, I signed 50 documents totalling over 200 pages.
    • Many of the documents requested of me were inaccurate, either procedurally or factually. For example, the bank attorney wanted me to sign a document saying that my ID was correct as written. But he wanted me to sign the document *before* he wrote the details in. I said no: he should write it in, then I sign. And he WROTE IT IN WRONG. 
  • At 1:50, we faxed the information to the bank. 
  • From 1:50 to 2:10, we waited for confirmation. 
  • At 2:55, my attorney’s receptionist suggested I leave. “We’ll call you back if we need anything from you.” 
  • At 3:45, I received the confirmation. 

I now own a home. 

Well, technically, the bank owns the home, but they’re going to let me live in it while I pay them back! 

Going Places (Jan 28 2026) 

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In which Our Hero voyages through space and time

Theo works nights at the front desk of the only hotel in this small French town. He works days at the car dealership, cleaning cars. He also works days on his talent management company. He wants to build the ROC Nation of France. He is 23 years old and wants to retire by 40. He prefers the American work ethic to the French one. I tell him to make sure to increase his hourly wage, not merely his number of hours worked. 

—

“You sleep when you can.” 

The businessman in the neighboring airplane seat says he lives his life out of suitcases, in identical rooms in identical towns. He changes time zones frequently: today Munich, tomorrow Mumbai. After years of struggle, he gave up on circadian rhythms. He sleeps when he sleeps and works when awake. One day, maybe he’ll have a partner. I wonder how old he is. 

—

Ilian is 21 years old, on an airplane for the first time. He’s snapping pictures out the window as the plane lifts off, and sets his phone to record video when he’s sleeping. “Comme un gros oiseau”, he says. Today he goes to Iceland. Next year, to Switzerland. Also on his list: Japan. I tell him Japanese pork was my surprising highlight of the cuisine. He doesn’t eat pork. “You’re Jewish?” I ask. His eyes widen in what looks to me like repulsion. “Muslim,” he corrects. He shares with me a breadstick he brought for the trip. We exchange phone numbers. When I return to Paris, we’ll go to a museum. Maybe one day I’ll tell him I was raised Jewish. 

— 

Somehow I became 32. I don’t remember 31 from 30. I can’t parse 29 from 28. I suddenly understand why my father takes a moment to isolate what year an event happened. “It was nineteen … (pause) eighty … (pause again) seven,” he’ll say, and then be proud he pinned it down. 

Six years ago I didn’t want kids. Five years ago I didn’t want a life partner. Four years ago I started taking exogenous sex hormones. Three years ago I flew to Australia to escape heartbreak. Two years ago I met my now-partner. One year ago I still lived in a van. 

Tomorrow, I buy a home. 

And the day after? 

Mellow and Dramatic (Jan 26 2026)

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In which Our Hero mellows in the drama 

Today was the first day of the second term. I’m not there. I’m in Etampes, four minutes walk from the school. I walked earlier today by the train station cafe that doubles as the student haunt. Yet I’m not there. Do I miss it? 

Today my mother and I dawdled down a classic Parisian street. Over lunch we swapped plates four times so we could experience what the other was eating. An Eastern European tourist offered us alcohol at Jim Morrison‘s tombstone. A California native gushed his worries about American politics 10 feet away from Molière corpse. 

This evening, my housing purchase was confirmed. After 8 years nomadic (homeless?), it’s time to put down roots. My partner ordered a bed for the empty apartment. I ordered locks for the doors. We’re buying one way flights like we always do, only this time they’re to home. 

The clown course I’m missing is melodrama. A fellow student once told me that melodrama is about stretching moments. What should be a five second stroll becomes ten minutes of dramatic, hyper-experienced anguish. 

Today stretched. From sprinting for the train to dashing through loan documentation, I was hyper present. Focused. Immersed. 

That’s one of the goals (or is it *the main goal* of clown school). Presence. Giving. Moving forward. 

I don’t miss melodrama. 

I’m excited for my life. 

Ease is what you make it (Jan 24 2026)

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In which intense and easy coexist 

At the start of today, I expected an easy day. Farmers market in the morning, then relaxing in this little medieval town, perhaps with a stroll around the lake.

But when I’m with my family, things happen!

My mother – who was up until 4am last night – walked for ten miles around Paris today. “Because today is so nice and tomorrow will be cold and rainy”. 

We sped through the annual scallop festival; sauntered winding streets in the outdoor flea market, strutted down the jardin des tuileries, and basked under the calmest place I’ve found in France (a particular library room near the Louvre).

We ate four of my favorite French foods: tomme de brebis, galette, a particular raclette wrap, and carbonara at the best Italian restaurant in Paris. (You may think carbonara is Italian. But if in France, doesn’t that make it French?)

Le jeu changed over time. From find caffeine to find food to find the most outrageous item being sold to people-watch to make the train. 

(We made the train home, despite it leaving in 20 minutes and Google telling us the walk would take 22 minutes.) 

If this were my everyday, I’d be exhausted.

Exhausted,

but happy.

😌

A Homecoming of Sorts (Jan 23 2026)

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In which? In Étampes! 

Back in Étampes, the land of the Clown School. My mother and I are visiting for ~5 days. 

My mother asked me what it’s like to be back.

My answer, in anecdotes:

  • At the airport, waiting for the bus, my mother and I talked about our travels to France: hers through Portugal, mine from Spain. Perhaps its the German genes we share, but both of us have trouble with those local cultures of queueing. 
  • When the corner baker popped up from behind the counter and saw me, her eyes widened and her cheeks shined. “I thought you were gone,” she said. I told her about my broken foot and leaving for the holiday. She told me, “Before you leave, you must tell me!”
  • My mother asked, “What should we get in our croissant?”. I replied, “Oh you silly Americans. We are going to the best croissant in the whole town. We will eat it as it is.” And we did. And it was good.
  • “I’m glad I’m wearing my boots, because this is muddy!” (I don’t own boots.) 
  • The two cheeses in the fridge, untouched for 1.5 months, had me wary. One ages for 24 months before it gets to me; the other spends its adolescence stewing in musty caves, which are selected because they harbor fungicidal mold. Perhaps it’s no surprise they’re both not only edible but delicious.
  • The outer crunch of the baguette; the smear of blue cheese; the dollup of black truffle pâté; the slice of iberian ham. If I lived here, this would be my every day. When I lived here, this was my every day.
  • Three — now four — times, my mother and I have said “It’s so great to be with you.”

The Gruffness of Manhood (Jan 21 2026)

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In which Our Hero has a ball 

Testicles should never be handled gruffly.

I met a man today who does exactly that.

A professional urologist, he receives testes on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

He begins with a long-winded explanation of two treatment options, each of which contradicts something he said previously. Then he gives vague instructions about how to sit on the bed, and panics when you do it wrong. 

Two days ago, I asked if I could see him in the morning. I would already be in the area at 9:30 a.m. I would rather not wait around until 5 p.m. The scheduler said I was lucky to get an appointment at all.

Fuck you, I thought. I’m paying for this. You’re a fertility clinic. You should have a urologist on staff. You’re not doing me a favor: this is your job. (This is my general experience with this clinic.)

Eventually, he slaps cold ultrasound goo on my balls and takes out the wand. He peers at the screen.

They look normal. No shit they do. He seems surprised. Has this man never seen a huevo before? 

And then, the best part: 

He cleans them.

There is something deeply satisfying about a gruff old man cleaning your testicles with visible irritation. No tenderness. No ceremony. Just the job, done thoroughly and against his will.

A small, immaculate fuck you.

I don’t respect doctors merely because they’re doctors. Many of them I respect less because they are. Authority that demands deference without earning it irritates me. 

So when a man who has done nothing but steadily lose my respect cleans my testicles—however gruffly—it brings me joy.

Squeaking By (Jan 18 2026)

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In which Our Hero enjoys a capital day. 

Dipping churros into chocolate, I could feel the blood throbbing in my left knee.

After walking 26,986 steps (13.34 miles) on a mostly-still-broken foot, inside a surgical boot that was actively coming apart, it was time for new shoes.

Most people don’t put hundreds of miles on their surgical boots.

Most people don’t buy a second surgical boot so both feet will be even.

Most people don’t sprint through Dallas/Fort Worth Airport in surgical boots when the announcement says they have three minutes to board, even though their ticket insists they really have eighteen.

I am not most people.

We landed in Madrid at 5:45 a.m.
By 6:45 a.m., we were failing to locate our Uber and choosing the subway instead. 

Our exit train from Madrid left at 4:45 p.m.

Ten hours in Spain’s capital.

After eight of them, my feet were finished. The boot—kept out of an abundance of caution—was now increasing my risk. Three weeks ago, I’d been cleared to wear normal shoes. I hadn’t. I’d stuck with the boot.

Safety, it turns out, has an expiration date.

I spotted a discount shoe store.

Since I return to France on Friday, I only needed shoes that would last five days.

The clerk showed me a pair of decent-looking sneakers: twenty euros. I tried them on. He only had the left shoe in size 44 and the right shoe in 45. The clerk agrees to a discount, and apologizes he cannot give us a greater one. After all, what shoe store only sells mismatched shoes? 

Little does he know, my right foot is the broken one. Mismatched shoes is actually a plus! 

I ate a second ham croissant. It rivaled the ones I’ve had in France. (It wasn’t a croissant in the way they make them there. But it was delicious.)

We strolled through Madrid’s central plaza.
We passed photos of gored bullfighters and Jimmy Carter. 

I learned I could buy an apartment of the same cost and size as my future one in this square. I concluded I’d rather have mine.

Why do people prefer the artsy second city?

Melbourne over Sydney.

Barcelona over Madrid.

In both, I have a strong preference. In both, it’s the business hub.

I prefer places where real people are real. Where life isn’t a reflection or performance of itself. And in Madrid, the live music is more prevalent than in Barcelona.

Ten hours.
Too-big, mismatched shoes. 

Clown. 

[Get the title? Squeaking? Like clown shoes? How they squeak? 

Tough crowd.] 

Roots, Post-Wings

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In which Our Hero plants a seed so grass may grow.

For the last 7 years, I’ve known my next destination only upon leaving my current one. The farthest ahead of time that I bought a plane ticket was one month, and I ended up changing that flight. More often, I’m choosing the next place less than a week ahead of time. 

In many ways, it’s magical: 

  1. Carrying everything I need on my back gives me complete self-sufficiency. Like a human turtle.
  2. Traveling light became a necessity. A dear friend has a tattoo that says “Travel light.” A good policy.
  3. I’ve learned to make friends quickly. When lost, I talk to strangers. When found, I do the same.
  4. I’ve shared small moments that mattered: teaching a baby to use an airplane tray table; splitting mangosteen with a man in Laos.
  5. Surprising reconnections: three people I knew in high school, all in northern Thailand. A man I met in Indonesia who later booked a room in my flat at clown school.
  6. Humans are the same everywhere. Then again, culture is real. 

In others, it’s tough: 

  1. Feeling unrooted. I’ve sacrificed depth for breadth. (Depth within breadth is its own type of depth. But it only goes so far.) 
  2. Insufficient community. The people you see every day or week are the people you build strong bonds with. 
  3. Lack of habit. I used to be a habitual person. Moving into a van really changes things. Selling the van without a new place to live changes things even more.  It’s hard to eat your normal daily breakfast when the monastery you’re visiting fasts until noon. 

Today I received the final document for my apartment purchase. I’d like to live there for a long time. I’d enjoy tacking my kids’ heights on the doorjamb until they eventually leave to find their own Laotian mangosteen. 

The deal isn’t done yet, and then there’s still renovations, so I’m hesitant to get too excited. 

But the yearning for stability is strong in me.

Easing In

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In which Our Hero builds the lazy river…

A guy who needs exactly my services is posting on Twitter about it.

I want to help. I know it’d be a good fit. I’m one of the five best people in the world at it.

Do I reach out?

Before you say “yes,” it’s a little more complicated.

He has to want it before I can close the deal.

We’ve already spoken… and he’s not ready.

So what do I do?

I make it easy for him to say yes.

—

Let’s talk about generosity.

Generosity isn’t martyrdom. It isn’t giving to others such that you can’t feed yourself.

Very few causes are worth dying for. Dying – or even destabilizing oneself – is rarely the most effective approach.

Generosity is finding what someone else needs and giving it to them.

And this guy needs ease.

—

At clown school, a fellow student told me that the creative people he knows don’t plan.

They go with the flow: having meetings when they have meetings, happening upon each other as needed.

I thought: that just means the powerful, successful people are the ones who make it look effortless.

That’s what this guy needs.

His current stress is mental load. He needs my work to remove that load.

I can’t convince him.

I need to make it easy.

I’ll be in his city in ~2 weeks.

I’ll wander to his area, grab coffee, maybe step into his office, meet his team.

And if I can make it easy enough for him…

Well, that’s the job.

–

Three key areas of my life came into alignment today. I said to my partner, “When you work hard, sometimes you get lucky.”

Is this generosity, or strategy?

I don’t think those are opposites.

Clown School Break Day 51: Dumb, Dumb, Duh-dumb Dumb Dumb…  

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In which Our Hero, um, … um … um … 

I’ve been feeling dumber lately. Having trouble finding the right word. Finding myself thinking slower. What’s up with this?

Hypotheses: 

  1. Clowning makes one less intellectual
  2. The work that I’ve been doing has been effective, but not intellectually stimulating
  3. Something else

The first seems likely true. Does clowning make one less intellectual? Yes. Less intelligent? No. However, among the many types of intelligence, it does not contribute to improving one’s smartness. In fact, it teaches one to focus on pleasure and emotion to the detriment of smartness. Sacrifices must be made at the altar of pleasure! 

The second: also likely. I’ve recently been doing a lot of important and procedural, but not intellectual, work. (Among them: buying and renovating an apartment; writing articles that are squarely in my wheelhouse.)

The third: maybe it’s hormonal? The speed of my verbal fluency was stronger on œstrogen. ‘Twas notably stronger. And now, I have much more general go-go-go (whether that’s testosterone itself or simply my familiarity with the hormone, I’m not sure), but less verbal speed. I make fewer moves but each move is stronger.

Another option for the third: a life transition that requires adjustment. Selling my previous home. Buying a new one. Moving internationally. Building a relationship. All of these can wear you down. 

A final option for the third: lack of exercise. Since I broke my foot I have been a complete lazypants. The brain thrives on exercise. Perhaps it will return when the activity returns. This one seems very likely to be influential :!D

It’s an odd experience to feel myself being duller than I previously was. And the people around me aren’t noticing… or at least aren’t noticing enough to say anything.

Then again, would they notice? And if noticed, would they say? 👀