My brain's not sharp enough to come up with a witty comment.
Everyone always talks about how well mothers know their children. No one ever seems to notice how well children know their mothers.
If I weren't a writer, I'd be a psychiatrist.
The woman I was seems hopelessly naive. I envy her.
Judgment is such a useful shield, isn't it? We can hide behind it, rise above others on its crest, keep ourselves safe and separate.
Today something interesting happened. I died.
I don't believe in mistakes. Never have. I believe that there are a multitude of paths before us and it's just a matter of which way we walk home. I don't believe in regret. If you regret things about your life, than I'll bet that you're not paying attention. Regret is just imagining that you know what would have happened if you took that job in California or married your high-school sweetheart or just looked one more time before you stepped out into the street. . . or didn't. But you don't know; you can't possibly know.
This was one of those special occasions when I could actually feel the inner appreciation of the beauty of the moment passing like an electric current through the brush in my hand.
You know, let a few years go by until I hit my midlife crisis. Then that can be documented on film.
I don't believe in guilty pleasures. If I like it, I don't feel guilty about it
San Francisco is where gay fantasies come true, and the problem the city presents is whether, after all, we wanted these particular dreams to be fulfilled--or would we have preferred others? Did we know what price these dreams would exact? Did we anticipate the ways in which, vivid and continuous, they would unsuit us for the business of daily life? Or should our notion of daily life itself be transformed?