I think of Kerouac often. The youth read him and want to be him, but they miss his point for the stories of the wild beat, the ramblin’ man of vice and excess — sounds fun, I suppose, when one is young.

Thirty four years as a speck of dust upon one larger. ‘Round and ‘round we go. But this one feels different. It already is different — here is overcoming; here is valuable change; here, I can say with absolute confidence, is momentum.

It is useful to remind oneself occasionally that the world is not as it ought to be.

The dogs are barking.

Culture, what is common, is by its nature opposed to both genuine authenticity and self-knowledge.

Whether to choose one or to indulge and play within the cycle, I do not know.

A serious man is hard to find.

We are, in fact, quite dumb.

One who wants to better himself is ipso facto not that to which he aspires.

Memento mori — be hard on yourself. The reaper is on your heels…

There is a short series of small waterfalls a few miles up Lynn Camp Prong of the Little River where the water swirls for a second or two at the plunge-point of each one.