Happiness
Topic: introspective
To me, happiness is always about small things. Taking note of good smells and watching a seagull dive in the sunlight. The flash of tailights streaking across the plastic of a burnt out streetlight so it looks like meteors. Grains of sand winking in the palm of the hand.

Everyone tells me his life like a Tom Clancy novel. But if you think about the world that way, the story of humankind and everything else is brutal and horrific - for the most part.

Virginia Woolf, on the other hand - details, stream-of-consciousness, taking note of precious moments. That is the only way to hold on to happiness, and treasure sadness.

I'm trying to make the story of my life more about the details, and relationships, and love. We'll see how well I do...

Dimanche
Topic: introspective
Sunday again, and since I went running instead of going to church, my soul needs a touch of philosophy to round out the week.

And what better point to pontificate upon than that relentless pursuit of perfection.

My running route this morning took me around a bend that I cut off on the way back via a side street. That got me thinking of right triangles with two equal sides which got me thinking of the square root of two. See, how long did I cut off? How much less did I run on the way back - it was some exact amount, this many steps, that many calories. But ultimately the distance is expressed in some form of the square root of two. An irrational number that continues tumbling off into decimals forever. And how can one run through an infinite number of decimals? Quantum physics, I guess. The quarks of my toes blasted through the asymptote like Godzilla through a Hundai.

And how many right triangles with two equal sides have I driven through and drawn? On graph paper in geometry class - somewhere on that pencil line of the hypoteneuse I got to the end of the square root of two.

But maybe that is something that can't be drawn. My angles must have been off, just by a bit. A tenth of a degree this way or that. And suddenly it's not the square root of two. Somewhere sixty-eight decimals down there's an 8. Just an eight. The last bit of graphite of my pencil line.

Perfection is an irrational number. But what is a personal best?

On pears
Topic: introspective
Today as I wandered amongst the flora and fauna of the supermarket, I chose for purchase two Anjou pears. They are green, and marred, and uneven. If I dropped one it would thump along like an unturned brake disk. I must marvel that an agricultural juggernaut devoted to uniformity, waxed beauty, genetic engineering, and Strawberries of Unusual Size has not been able to tame the mild yet juicy pear.

Gorgeous actresses pile on pounds and wigs and noses to become award-winning material. The pear started out ornery and perhaps will remain so. Henry and David together and alone have wrapped ribbons and dared to gift the ripe melting pears that show every bruise and blemish of handling and shipping.

And so as I put on my running shoe miles and apply my creme-to-powder foundation and moisturizer and mascara and lipstick and engagement bling bling, I admire the pear. Not afraid to be accepted for what it is: messy and original and mild. In Style and Cosmo and Mademoiselle and Self and Anna Nicole and Trimspa eat your varnished heart out.