072518 OK, I think when she said “anything that is not purely nonsense” that that applies to the 15-minute workouts, as well. At least I’m going with that until I get a chance to review the relevant pages and learn otherwise. Been rereading *The Importance of Being Earnest*, and I still enjoy it, though not, I seem to half recall, maybe quite so much as I did the first time, and I think (or I’m inclined by habit to think I think) that may because I “understand” it more now. Like I have a less ingenuous outlook on the scenes and characters. Like before, when I was younger, I took them more at face value, treating them as real people in my mind’s production. Scandalous though they (now, I realize, too-obviously) are, I found something to love about them. Maybe it was my own repressed colorful-scarf wearing, danger-loving, happily lying (before I even knew about *malandrago* or whatever (can’t remember if that’s the exact right spelling, but you know what I mean. The trickster guy) hidden inner self who was recognizing kindred spirits. Seeing depth where there wasn’t any; identifying with a cartoon character, which is something you can do in secret when you’re young, only revealing that you’ve done over a fireside chat with a trusted friend you may be a little in love with or may just be shooting the shit and smoking a bowl with; but once you’re old enough to see the individual frames that make up the specious animation, you tend to subconsciously deny that you ever had a crush on Bugs Bunny. You know what I mean? OK, eight minutes to go, and nothing else to say about that. But that’s the beauty of it. You could find the— —the whole notion of “book” and “page” and “writing” is so outmoded, it’s almost safe. That’s what I hate about it. How do you use an AB Dick 360 to make a hologram? Why did my fucking Markdown clippings stop working in BBEDit?????? THIS IS THE KIND OF SHIT THAT MURDERS AMBITION EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY!!!!! FUCK!!!!!! FUCK!!!!! FUCK!!!!!! FCU ok the whole notion of you can’t make a living sailing unless you’re a grizzled curiosity with just a hair less charisma than you really probably ought to have, working down by the docks in some hipster destination; the parents can tell that you’re a little used up and are just a regular guy, but there’s just BARELY enough of the crow around your eyes to draw them in regardless. You are, in your mundane, french-fry-eating, just working for a living like anybody else way, just a teensy bit irresistable after all. And so you get your little paycheck and you take them out on your boat. No new continents are discovered. No treasure is conveyed. No storms are survived. It’s generally sunny, or else you wouldn’t go out. Although, there was that one time... No new continents or treasure or storms or great discoveries, that is, except for these: the scintillations in the eyes of the kids, the ones who’ve let their guardians’ watchful presence disappear with grace, who feel the salt and taste the wind and catch the glint of that one secret spot—that one small packet of water oh say one and a half to two inches below the surface of the hillock of a wave, that catches and holds the golden earring of the sunlight, once, for just an instant, delivers it to that kid’s waiting naked treasure chest, then disappears twenty-one seconds to go, and no end in sight. meanwhile, back on land, the path, freshly mown by the bored parks and rec employee who’s secretly not really bored at all, beckons. I know, I know, it says, we’re only land and trees, but we too can lead you to secret seas.