Writing a blog is different than writing a diary. A diary isn’t for an audience and is more of a processing tool. I’ve kept diaries on and off for many years, and re-reading them is one of the more painful experiences.

It took me until almost 9:30am today to remember it was April Fools. I had breakfast with S., commuted, and saw my first client without even thinking about it. I even saw some snippets of the news and read another chapter in my book without it occurring to me.

There are two boxes of tissues on the windowsill of one of the gyms I train in. Today, I watched an old woman waddle into the room and stick her finger into the first box. She was checking how many tissues it contained.

There’s a woman sitting across from me. She has shoulder length gray hair and black framed glasses. She is white and wears what I would call a “small puffer” Patagonia vest.

Whenever I travel with a large group of people, I’m surprised by how afraid men are to share beds with each other. They will sleep on the floor, the couch, the countertop…as long as they don’t have to share a giant king size bed. But when I was working to sort us out last night, one would said, “I prefer not to share a bed,” and the others just sorted themselves onto their own safe islands.

Today I saw a Confederate flag hanging in the front window of a small house in upstate New York. The house looked tiny and dirty. It was unpainted, and the light from the small window was completely blocked by the flag. It must be really dark inside.

Sometimes life is like herding smoke—I can barely contain it, and I’m in constant pursuit of order and control. Other times it is like breathing in at a bakery—everything sweet surrounds me. All I need to do is inhale.