Tag: Writing

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? 

The Eyes Have It! (Jan 27 2026)

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In which… conehead? 

I awoke this morning at 5:30. By 7:30 I was on the train. At 8:15 I was on the subway. At 8:45 I arrived to my appointment. The appointment lasted from 9:00 to 9:17. By 9:30 I was back on the subway. By 10:00 I was back on the train. At 11:20 I was home.

What 17-minute meeting is worth nearly 4 hours of travel? Why did I awaken so early?

My mind often wakes me early when I have much to accomplish. And today’s was not about the life-changing home purchase I’ve been working on. Today’s was about my eyes.

They’re cones, you see. Becoming them, at least. My sister used to refer to me (affectionately?) as cone-eye.

And cones, as any optician will tell you, do not make ideal lenses.

After ten years of wanting and wishing and wandering, I’ve finally found a surgeon who should be able to get me the perfect vision I’ve always wanted (sans glasses).

I had an appointment with a member of his team 6 months ago, and then again today to confirm the measurements are stable. (I.e. my eyes have concluded their cone-becomingness.)

They have.

We have.

In 14 days I will consult with this surgeon.

One, or two, or perhaps six days later he will slice open my eye to add a new lens.

One week after that, he will repeat with the other eye.

Then,

we

shall

see

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. 

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.”

Testicular biopsies really take it out of ya! (Jan 22 2026) 

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In which Our Hero has a ball by losing part of one.*  

The second thing I told my partner after emerging from surgery: “That was fun. Can I get paid to do that?” (I guess it’s somewhat like the premise of the TV show Severance.)

I *really* like being unconscious. And awakening from anasthesia is exceedingly pleasant. 

This might not be everyone’s experience of surgery, but for mine: 

  • Before going in, I made a wager with my partner. She set the over-under line for duration at 26 minutes (from Julian leaves room to Julian re-enters room). I took the under.
    • As the doctors faffed around me in the operating room, the last thing I thought was “Eugh, I didn’t factor in this time”. 
    • Okay, the real last thing I thought was, “Huh, in the States the anesthesiologist tells you to count down as they knock you out. This guy is just waving “buh bye” at me.” 
  • After surgery, the first thing I did was tell a joke.
    • It’s my favorite bilingual Spanish joke. 
    • The doctors didn’t appreciate it. 
    • Perhaps I told it poorly. 
    • Perhaps they didn’t expect a bilingual joke from the clown who just woke up from surgery.
  • As I returned to the waiting room, I began to sing.
    • My partner tells me she knew I was returning because I’m the only person who would possibly sing in this context. 
  • Total duration: 44 minutes.
    • I even enjoyed losing the bet. 

I don’t know that there’s a job that pays like this for doing this. Medical experiments, perhaps, but I’m not sure I’d like to do those… 

Hmm. 

🤡
*(No, it’s not a reason for concern.)

Going Whole Hog (Jan 20 2026)

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In which less risk it leads to less biscuit 

This upcoming Monday is the first day of spring term for clown school.

One student is going into immense debt for tuition.
Another student spent their inheritance to be here.
This school really must be something. 

I won’t be there. 

I’m not sure I committed to the school whole hog.
I committed with great intensity, sure. But underneath the intensity was an underlying “This isn’t my life. I’m not an actor/performer/clown. I’m here to learn the skills for myself, not for the purpose they’re teaching them.” 

This structure meant that some underlying part of me felt misfit.
The one course I was most intent on – Bouffon – drew me.
The foundational course Le Jeu also attracted.
The other courses I cared less for. 

Perhaps this disinterest led to a shallower relationship.
Pushing myself to achieve rather than it coming from an internal alignment. 

If my interests are aligned to my tastes and preferences,
Then my disinterest in some areas may not merely be cosmetic
But a substantive “go here and not there…” 

I’m most drawn to Bouffon for the outcast and grotesque.
First as a matter of my relationship to gender.
Later as a matter of my relationship to all. 

Greek tragedy: not so much. Melodrama, minorly. Vaudeville: sure. Mask play and clown: perhaps not. 

I don’t need to take everything or nothing.
I needn’t even take all the classes this year (as opposed to some the next).
That’s not the sort of whole hog I aim to be. 

Since all we ever have is now,
perhaps I align that way.

In the spirit of learning what kind of hog I am/I appear to others, I created an anonymous feedback form. If anything comes to mind, tell me!

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.] 

Giblets (Jan 17 2026)

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In which Our Hero feels offal.

Just to the left of my navel, I learn a truth.
Not about facts or the world,
but about how a topic feels to me
I think this is what people mean when they say “follow your heart” or “speak from the heart”.
It troubled me for many years — still does — because that place is not my heart. It’s at least five inches below my heart, and two to the outside.

We also advise “trust your gut”. Is the place I found not my heart but my gut? Am I misusing each location for its maximally effective purpose? Follow your heart in love; trust your gut in business?

After casting about for a writing theme a few days ago, a friend suggested I write as the ideal version of me would.

Hemingway says write the most true sentence. Then the next true sentence.

The truth is, I feel scared. Not all of me, but a good 80%. I’m pushing and shoving toward the biggest financial decision of my life. I’ve capped my downside risk at an acceptable amount. I’ve run the numbers by family and friends more risk-averse than me. The answer is go.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It’s action while in the presence of fear. In this case, it’s encircling the fear with my flabby squeezers and hugging it while I jump the two of us jump into an abyss.
Most of the time, the bungee cord holds. Take a situation that would otherwise be frightening: if you add safety, it becomes thrilling.

The fear is not me. The fear is not anything. Both it and I are transient (that’s a pun).
I see why people turn to religion in times of stress.
God is what we call the experience of being healed. There’s something addictively reassuring – especially in our most fearful moments – in believing someone is looking out for you, sending positive outcomes your way.

Let us run then, you and I
As the sun surmounts the sky
The icy clovers frost with dew
Let us dive then: me and you.

I fear nothing, though fear is present.
Fear is my friend. I stand atop its shoulders.
Together, our future rolls out a carpet to greet us.

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.