I am running along the 2nd ring side road into a slight breeze. Compared to yesterday my legs are heavier and the air is heavier. I move one through the sloth and my brain joins me by going back in time. My distinct early grammar memories are few. Getting picked on mercilessly in kindergarten until the end of the year when one of the bullies was also transferring from public school to catholic school. Becoming engaged to a pretty girl in 2nd grade (later she would become a stunning adult and me a stumbling one). Skipping 3rd grade math because I did well on some kind of standardized test. And being sent to speech therapy. ...

Lydia and Elisa are walking single file in front of me making their way to the back of the speed boat. As we walk I hear a father call out from the water below. “Help, help!” and I look down to see him trying to wave his hands towards his 10 year old son who despite the life jacket was in some kind of danger. It barely registered with me at the time beyond delaying our descent into the water as the boy and father climbed back into the boat. As we got to the rear steps a mom, holding her six month old, gave me some advice about tying Elisa’s hair back. Death stare. Lydia was first into the water followed by Elisa and then me. Elisa was immediately scared as the ocean swells put her head underwater and she could not adjust their rhythms. I too was having a hard time adjusting and could immediately relate to the father calling emergency. I held Elisa through a few more waves but she was too nervous and could not adjust so I brought her back to the boat. I went back out to find Lydia waiting for me, not affected at all. We snorkeled for about 30 minutes, father and daughter, enjoying a wonderous feeling of weightlessness and senses of the eyes. When it we were done we found Elisa waiting on the boat for us, relaxed again. ...

My epiphany is: Life is better when you are not an asshole. This came to me while dining with my two daughters on the deck of a Mexican restaurant facing the Andaman sea. I had been to this restaurant twice before, two and five years ago and both times left feeling ripped off by the bad service and overpriced mediocre food. I’m not sure why I even suggested we go there that night except I knew the girls would want to go for our western meal of the day and I preferred mediocre mexican food over pizza. There was nothing really better about the food or the service, except the it was better. After a few minutes focusing on my 6 and 11 year olds, the food they wanted and the banter they wanted, the realization hit me. Everything was better because I let go of the frustration and that enabled me to enjoy the moment. ...

I had the idea that when Aidan came home on his 13th birthday we would do the normal birthday party thing and after he cut the cake and made his wish we’d give him his present. No, not that. The present was a week long snowboarding trip in Japan which he’s been dying to do. And, by the way, we’d tell him you are leaving for the airport right now. ...

Walking home after lunch Aidan is talking about words that sound like swear words. “Kiss my avocado”, I say. Aidan gives me a bemused look and the starts laughing and then speaking to Lydia. He wants to repeat but doesn’t know how to say avocado so I say “kiss my avocado” again and they are both laughing. Elisa is trailing behind us and smiles at our smiles. Their dad just got a little more human. ...

The thing about turning 50 is I never really thought about it. I mean, yes, I thought about it from my mid 40s as an upcoming dreadstone but earlier in life, it just never occurred to me. I thought about being 21 and what it would mean to be an adult. And then I thought about 30 as being a “grown up”. I remember in grammar school doing the calculation of when I would be 30. 1996. 20 years ago now, 20 years ago from then. I thought about 40 as being done with being “young” and while that was true in many ways I felt my mind rejuvenated in my 40s and my body not being that much different that my 30s. The first time I really thought about 50 was when I thought past it – a little while after my 45th birthday I realized I was closer to 60 than 30. But here I am at 50. It was waiting for me. ...

It is Christmas Eve and the US embassy sent out a terror threat warning that foreigners may be targeted at a popular shopping area not far from where I live. First time I’ve received such a warning. We put on masks to protect against the pollution and walk to another popular shopping mall. Along the way we see police holding rifles which, btw, is not normal. Inside the mall there are Christmas decorations and even a line for children to sit on Santa’s lap and make their Christmas wishes. But the line is mostly filled with young women wanting to capture a WeChat moment with Santa. I suspect Santa did not mind. ...

(Some ramblings of an expat; someday I’ll get my act together and maybe write this for real.) I’ve lived in Beijing for almost 11 years. I do not read Chinese. I do not speak Chinese. I can understand little spoken Chinese. I’ve tried off and on to learn. Languages comes hard to me. I am an introvert and don’t really speak that much in English. In fact, my English has gotten worse since I’ve moved here. My main motivation to learn Chinese would be have a decent response to “how’s your Chinese” question I get from Chinese and foreigners whenever I first meet them. ...

It is Thursday night. Thanksgiving. I am sitting an expat bar. An old one. There is no sign of Thanksgiving here. I am talking with a friend. Listening mostly until I am warmed up by a cold beer and then talking some myself. An old topic comes up, a he said/she said topic. One that used to drive me crazy since what she said was from an alternative universe where truth is warped to satisfy one’s ego. But on this night it did not bother me. I took a sip and said that people do this, they justify their positions sometimes at the expense of others. But that doesn’t make it true and if you want the truth, well there are more pleasant conversations to have. ...

On this night when the dream comes I am sleeping in my Dad’s basement. I feel the force approaching and my spirit moves to the window and then back to the center of the room and then into the other room. A garage. Not a garage. Whatever I am feeling approaching, whatever it is, scares me, It’s coming for me and when it gets me it won’t be pleasant. It must not get me. My spirit then appears on the hills across the street, looking down. I turn, float, up the fire trail and then I am back in the room and the force is gone. For a moment. In the next moment I am in my neighbors back yard, outside, not wanting to go inside. The force is not so near but I feel it. And then I am back in the room again. The force coming. ...