When I was a kid, I usually had my head in a book — usually fiction or anthropology.
My tastes in reading have swerved into lanes of philosophy, autobiography, memoir, and most recently emerging studies of the mind/brain/body connections.
I’ve morphed into a sucker for a good research paper, a scholarly discussion of double-blind tests with standard deviations and all that jazz, but in terms of reading for the sake of reading, I’m much more interested in notebooks, these days, than just about anything else. Camus. Nietzsche. Snippets of insight into the minds behind the words. They link the authors to the flow of life around them, and they smack of the everyday, which absolutely begs to be explored.
The mundane… the blessedly fascinating mundane.
Moments interest me these days, a lot more than hours and days… and beyond. Moments of life — real life. Wherever it may find itself.
And each individual moment seems packed full of every other moment that led up to it. To the point of being dizzying with its density. No matter how fleeting.
Ever since I was a kid, I was fascinated by moments — the everything that fed into the particulars of an instant — and that fascination has endured. Through the years of day-jobs, through the moves from one place to another, the shifts in relationships, the changes of fortune… through the years of genuine struggles, the boring rote required routines, through the years of sorting things out, piece by piece, till things all came together.
In the midst of it all, are our moments.
And the NOW — fleeting as it may seem — is anything but.
It is everything we have ever been — individually and collectively.
It is everything we will ever be.