Thursday, October 25, 2018


"At the heart of a sulk lies a confusing mixture of intense anger and an equally intense desire not to communicate what one is angry about. The sulker both desperately needs the other person to understand and yet remains utterly committed to doing nothing to help them do so. The very need to explain forms the kernel of the insult: if the partner requires an explanation, he or she is clearly not worthy of one. We should add: it is a privilege to be the recipient of a sulk; it means the other person respects and trusts us enough to think we should understand their unspoken hurt. It is one of the odder gifts of love."
Alain de Botton


Tuesday, October 23, 2018


I was barely 4 on my first camp out at Grapevine Lake. I still smell the smoke, I remember the stringer of fish I caught from the bank, and my father cautioning as it grew into dusk not to wander too far from the camp in the brush, and to watch out for Gullywampuses.
“Whats a Gullywampus?” I asked.
“it’s a Gullywampus” was his reply. 
Over the years I came to understand that that was exactly right. A Gullywampus was a Gullywampus, it could be anything from a cow skull to a fishing lure, but on that first camping trip it was probably snakes.
I can take you to that spot even today. It looks different now, 57 years later. Amazingly, there are a lot more trees. A lot more brush.
My most recurring memory of that trip was standing on the bank and looking out across the lake. It seemed a long way to the other shore, but I was sure that if I fell in, I would be able to make it to the other side because I was taking swimming lessons.
It never occurred to me until years later that if I fell in I didn’t have to make it to the other side.
You store everything inside yourself and then one day, wherever you are, whatever the time, it appears just like that.