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I’m Not Good at Choosing Titles
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Lately, I’ve been feeling like Dan Rather’s balls after he’s played an intense one-hour pickleball match against Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Although, whenever I pop my head out the window, the fresh air and sunlight hitting my skin feel akin to the joy I experience when eating a fresh bag of Cool Ranch Doritos after six months of no snacking.
Talking on the phone yesterday to my online Australian friend, Genevieve, who sounds like an esteemed and eloquent philosophy professor at Columbia University, with zero indication that she, too, is so unwell, she agreed — we are both as unfit as broken fiddles.
Earlier in the day, while on X, formerly Twitter, I’d commented on a post from America’s legendary literary queen, Joyce Carol Oates, about her friend’s upcoming silent Buddhist retreat. I just couldn’t contain myself. I said that after a week of silence, if someone accidentally drops a fork on the floor at lunchtime, it will sound like a bomb went off.
Joyce, however, kindly reminded me that there is no lunchtime on such retreats. I rather find that hard to believe though. So not only do they remain in silence, but they also deprive themselves of the sacred meal of lunch.
This morning, I am reminded of the time I lived in Germany and worked in a German-speaking…
