Apparently its less interesting to read about how I spent Sunday out on a stroll with Adam denouncing Sebastian Junger and other such arcania of my daily life than to hear me stick to bigger topics, musings about the state of mankind and so on. The only slight catch is that my obsessional ruminations are pretty topical.

Like I've been watching Angels in America. Which is kind of a moderately good, moderately sucky movie. But it is six hours long and incredibly ambitious and full of what I consider mistakes, but they are still mistakes that are on a grand scale. So the point is I appreciate that the people involved were thinking big. And that is what I think about when I watch it, to dull the pain of seeing Meryl Streep try to do a rabbi impression or pass the time during another scene of 18th century ghosts waving sparklers around.

The point is, if you have ever tried to do anything, you begin to appreciate just how hard it is. And even though when I got up this morning and went outside the moon was beautiful and full and still hanging low and you could see Jupiter last night and life is full of such thrills, I was thinking about the dream I had, where I was pushing a wheelbarrow up a hill, with my head. Your basic frustration dream, which is pretty much a recurrent dream for me. And it makes me think: I must be frustrated in my life, much more than I acknowlege to myself. But I subscribe to the Voltarian notion that its best not to spend time thinking about such things. It will only make you nuts.