QNTNs.com Podcast

In the great green room

To go to Rome,Much labor, little profit:The King whom thou seekest there,Unless thou bring Him with thee,Thou findest Him not.

As you prepare for your pilgrimage, you’re reminded that it is not the going that takes you. Spiritualize every step. Can you arrive before arriving? Can every moment be made profitable?

A quiet shadow with you always. “Oh, it’s You again. I forgot You were there.” Silly. Silly. Me.

What is a lesson?A lesson is a decision that compounds to make a better life. Maybe the lesson is learned, read, or dreamed. Whether or not abided, the lesson is true for life. These lessons are not original. Publishing lessons is not an act of claiming the knowledge, but clarifying it.

This lesson is simple. The phone stays in the car when you come home or enter a place where the phone does not support the activity, like the church, the gym, or a social gathering.

Especially on working days, you return home fatigued or forlorn. Some days are lived without good intentions. The day’s duties and stressors wither and close the joyous heart. Feeling deprived, you reach for the phone, but the phone is not the heart’s true desire. Phone use in the home is not restorative. Instead, its thrills numb the deeper feelings, which are lessons when given the space to be felt.

The home is a sanctuary. Time with friends is a sanctuary. The sanctuary is a sanctuary. Be done, and the temptation will flee. In the quietude of sanctuary life, the mind settles, giving the quiet heart a chance to speak.

Decide to fill your phone’s battery during your commute, never bringing the phone into the home. When you pull into the driveway or walk into the foyer, put away the phone. The phone does not enter your living quarters. The phone is left behind. The phone can be a car phone.

The next step is to leave your computer behind. But you’re not there yet.

I am posting this on Nov 8, 2024, but Burke and I first recorded it five years ago. We went out with a camera and a shotgun mic one cool, fall day. This audio file was long ago archived, never to be posted — another project whose ambitions exceeded the will to ship. But as I looked through my window today to see cirrocumulus clouds above, I thought to myself, “What ever happened to that Stone Mountain recording?” This is what happened to it. Unearthed some five years later. (Don’t say I never saved anything, Burke! 😉)

Quentin: I think the camera would have been better than the sound. What do you think, Burke?

Burke: Don’t doubt yourself, Q.

Quentin: Alright.

Burke: Welcome to this week’s NPR. (NPR.) At the Confederacy.

You know, that actually would be the funniest podcast ever, of like, unedited podcast. (Yeah.) So all the outtake, all of like, ooh, I get a recording of my footsteps so we can add it into the background.

Quentin: Yeah. But hey, there’s that tin metal trash can over there. Go give it a thumb.

Burke: Go give it a nice wallop.

Sep 23, 2019 | Burke Swanson | Poem

Today's forecast: Cirrocumulus.

This essence of who I am,

How can I begin to remedy

Look up,

They were the pedestrian caravan

They were the children

Yet father,

I’m filming a deer.

We were just there to observe,

*GPS Signal Lost.*

It’s 4:15 (4:15!)

Thanks for reading QNTNS.com! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

The scene was a reclaimed highlander home of one hundred years, owner to a reverend called the “Shepherd of the Hills,” whose house now makes a dining room and restaurant for the retired well-to-do. This detail is made known from the minister's portrait inlaid on the wall beside their table and from the historical excerpt from the inside cover of the Orchard restaurant’s felted, bi-fold menu.

They were seated in the former Hawkins-Menninger house, which was now a wood-paneled dining room next to an elder woman at the adjacent table whose phone was strung with a lanyard by a noose knot around the case.

“What is in that lanyard," the younger mother asked the son.

“It's an AirTag. She tied an AirTag to her phone.”

Mother and son rolled their eyes. Father buttered his roll.

The joke is that AirTags are found with iPhones, not on iPhones. There's no point tying the beacon to the tracker lest in losing one, one loses both — the same flawed logic as burying the map to the treasure within the treasure chest.

The younger family concluded dinner ahead of the elder family, leaving hurriedly ahead to the car, cursing the frost, crunching the frozen ground with their steps, but thanking themselves for filling their bellies.

In a luxury vehicle, they sped not two turns from the former preacher's former home till the younger mother made it clear she was having no luck finding her phone.

“It's not in my purse,” she said.

“You aren't sharing your location,” said the son, already thinking to check Apple's “FindMy” service. “Here,” he said. “Login to your ApplelD, and we can track it with your account.”

She did.

“It says we're right on top of it.” However, nothing was heard upon “Play sound.”

What was unclear to the son, and what was especially unclear to the mother and father, was that the phone had automatically connected to the car's Bluetooth, which was not programmed to relay FindMy tones, incidentally muting the now lost device. This software quirk will likely remain, for who loses a device within range of the Bluetooth headphone connection?

“It's obviously at the restaurant,” she said. “Turn around.”

They did.

The son was asked to go inside. Reluctant per embarrassment, he acquiesced.

To the middle-aged host and manager, the son said, “Have you seen a phone? My mother misplaced hers.”

“We haven't bussed that table yet if you'd like to take a look.”

So the son made a naked walk backwards, back into the dining room.

FindMy in hand, he cued the sound, but nothing played. He looked under the cushions, but nothing was there. The elder family was finishing their port and eyeing him curiously. He thought — an awful thought — “If iPhones could be found like AirTags, I’d have found it already.” But no! What was he saying?! What a stupid idea. But turning his head up from the table, he caught a glance of the Shepherd of the Hills, Reverend William Hawkins, and his inlaid portrait on the wall: smirking. But of course.

Karma's a b***h.

Humiliated, the son cowered away through the dining hall, hoping to be unseen, but no.

“Any luck,” the manager asked.

Realizing what had happened, the son replied, “As it turns out, the phone was in the car all along.” “Glad you found it.”

Through the minister’s home’s front door, the son could feel the shrill wind calling to him from the car. It was his father’s voice, relieved and innocent, just a pawn to another’s plotline. “Quentin,” called his father. “We found it under the seat.”

The ride home was silent.

What do you want to be when you grow up? Because we do get to choose."

Miss Green asked her kindergarten class, or was it young fives? Twenty pretzel-legged boys and girls sat on juice-stained carpet, underwear streaked with dingleberries, everyone eager to announce the fortunes of who they wish to become.

Sometimes the question is asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" The difference is in the "do" versus the "be."

However, it's rare for the questioner to emphasize the difference, and even rarer for five-year-olds to understand the difference.

Annie spoke first, as Annie usually does. "I want to be a veterinarian." That's a long word. "Veter-in-air-ian."

"Sound it out. Sound it out." was what Miss Green always said to comfort troubled tongues. Except it was clear Annie needed no reminder to "sound it out." This wasn't her first time.

But how can she say such a large word, we wondered. Perhaps she enjoyed the prestige pronouncing tricky words brings. Or perhaps she really did enjoy veterinary science, of which large words are routine. Or perhaps it was a more intricate tale.

Perhaps she once read the word "vet" underneath the word "homeless," interrupted in tears. Perhaps those tears reflected themselves in the convex mirror mounted in her mother's dashboard. Perhaps it was the tendency of Annie's mother to watch her daughter's reflection as they drove along the highway. Perhaps her mother shrieked at the sight of these tears, demanding to know the matter. Through all the sobbing and stuttering, Mom decided this the opportune moment to berate Annie's impediment. Mom was parked and flashing her hazards, unbuckled, contorted, and halfway into the rear cabin, shaking Annie to explain herself when Annie, given her keen ability to use clear language in tricky situations, managed to spare a complete thought between her mother's violent rebukes.

"Am I going to be a homeless veterinarian when I grow up?" Pointing to the homeless veteran outside the car door, who was curiously praying, not for himself, but for Annie, though he neither knew her name nor how to pray.

"Oh, Annie, child, did you think that man on the street was a homeless vet?" Annie nods. "Oh, Annie, child, that man is a veteran, not a veterinarian. That's what 'vet' stands for, 'veteran.'" Annie still doesn't understand. "A veteran, Annie, is an ex-military member who lives on the welfare of dutiful people." Annie knew all about welfare and duty.

So Annie vowed never to become a vet when she grows up. "Absolutely not." Her mother agrees. Perhaps Annie and mom perfected the pronunciation of 'veterinarian' for the next 15 minutes until Annie was certain never to call herself a 'vet' and never to be embarrassed by mispronouncing 'veterinarian.' Perhaps this is how Annie knows the word so well.

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian." "Indeed," her mother nods. Then she dismissed her hazards and they drove past their homeless compatriot. Perhaps this was how it happened. Things that happen now, however, we were all perplexed.

The boys firstly baffled. They knew better than to ask, but their ignorance was discomforting. The words, "What did Annie say?" fell from our open mouths. We were eyeing each other for clues, eyeing the other girls whose expressions, unfortunately, were clueless. The girls were staring at juice stains, hoping to escape the moment unnoticed. Annie went on smiling while the class sat paralyzed.

Seeing this, Miss Green rescued us as Miss Green always did. "A vet? How wonderful, Annie. Who would like to go next?" Then after moments of silence, everyone instantaneously erupted, roaring smirks from the boys, violent hand-raising from the girls. Annie wasn't smarter than us, we thought. She was merely playing us for fools, thinking smart words could distract from the truth of her simplicity.

"You're a sellout!" we wanted to scream at her. "You're just like every other girl who thinks puppies are cute and cats pretty. You didn't really think we'd fall for that long word, did you? We know who you are and who you will become. You are nobody!"

Children are a ruthless bunch. It's a good thing we're too shy to ever speak. The boys were angry with competition. Nate was mouthing the words his father taught him. In fact, we all were.

"Investments. Equity. Banker." Connor was doing the same. "Lawyer. Attorney." We were preparing for war against the girls. "Surgeon. General. Politician." Our parents had taught us well.

Even I was antsy trying to pronounce "designer." "Artist." But I figured I'd fall back on my usual "accountant." "Accountant." Because nobody seemed to understand this and their bafflement was my encouragement to persist. Plus, "artist" tends to prompt follow-up questions like, "What kind of artist?" or "What do you think you'll do?" I hadn't thought it through, of course. At least, I hadn't thought it through long enough to know what kind of artist I'd be. I did, however, know I was going to be an artist. Of course I knew. I just said so. I am going to be an artist. What do you mean, "What do you think I'll do?" I'm going to be an artist.

Sometimes adults ask stupid questions, especially to children. Do adults think suppressing their intelligence when speaking to a child is something the child requires? It's not. But like I said, we had erupted, desperate to be better than our girly counterparts.

Jack was almost decided to blurt out, "Sports journalist!" when Annie rose to her feet and screamed, "I'm not going to be a vet! I'm going to be a veterinarian!" There we were, thinking we understood "vet" was shorthand for "veterinarian." Miss Green confirmed it just seconds ago. Except Annie is emphatically saying the two are not the same.

And poor Jack, face buried in his hands. This commotion must have stripped those words straight from his mouth. Even Miss Green didn't know what to say. And she always knew what to say. "Sound it out, Miss Green, sound it out!" She didn't.

Instead, as unexpected as food poisoning, Elijah raised his hand and without hesitation asked the most profound question we'd ever heard. "What's the difference between what we want to do and what we want to be?" The class stammered. Frozen. Miss Green almost asked him to repeat the question. We almost asked him to repeat the question. We didn't. Instead, Annie returned to her seat. The girls lowered their hands. The boys shut their mouths and quit mouthing the strange words of their parents.

For the first time in our five-year-old life, we stopped recalling the many ideas and sounds we'd heard before. Our brains seized the fire for those brief moments. The train of our thinking came to a screeching halt. Worse, the train of our thinking stopped. It stopped and then reversed its direction. For that moment, we chugged backwards. Our thoughts were still moving, our brains still thinking, but never in a direction we'd ever thought before. We weren't merely recalling old memories. Something else was happening. Perhaps we were inventing something, creating something, solving for an answer to Elijah's question. What did Elijah's question mean? Miss Green finally spoke. She spoke unlike herself, without happy cadence, celebrating our participation. She spoke directly, dryly. She spoke how Grandmother spoke when announcing the suicide of Grandpa.

"Your grandfather loves you," she said. "He loves you so much, he's chosen to live beyond you, to be with you in your hearts and minds. Your grandfather has left his body, and so you must remember your grandfather if you wish to be with him." To be with him, I thought. Miss Green finally spoke. To do something is an action, similar to the verbs we've been learning about.

Can someone give me a verb?

"To jump."

"Yes, to jump. That is something we do. We will jump. We jump. We jumped. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. What are you doing when you're jumping?"

There was a pause.

"It's a trick question," she comforts us.

"You're jumping?"

"Yes, you're jumping. And what are you doing after you're jumping?"

Another pause.

"It can be anything," she added.

"You're not jumping."

For some reason, Miss Green found this funny.

"Okay, you're not jumping. Perhaps you're just standing. Or you're falling. Or you're running after you were jumping. And what are run, jump, and fall?"

Someone smarter than me said verbs. I was lost. "Things you do?," I thought.

"Yes, verbs. Verbs are things you do. And things you do are verbs."

So what was the question?

Eli asked, "What's the difference between what we want to do and what we want to be?"

"If doing is an action, like running, working, and learning, does anyone want to guess what being is?"

We were still. Stiller than normal. For longer than normal. The girls had returned to their juice stains, frozen in time. The boys were circling their eyes around the room, desperately avoiding eye contact with Miss Green. Miss Green was looking out the window. I knew because I was staring directly at Miss Green. Then at Eli. Then back at Miss Green. Eli began staring at Miss Green, too. Then at me for staring at him. Then we both stared out the window. All this staring had my eyes crossed.

"When's recess?" Someone was about to say it. This silence was lasting too long. That's when Miss Green asked her impossible question.

"What are you doing when you're not doing something?"

It was clear the boys were sick of this game, because Brian, without raising his hand or anything, said, "You're not doing anything." He said it the way he taunts Annie. He spoke like a donkey. "Hee haw, hee haw." It was a mistake. Miss Green moved her eyes from the courtyard directly onto Brian.

"Isn't not doing something doing something?"

Brian shrugs. The food poisoning returned. Diarrhea was upon us for revenge when Elijah saved us yet again. We were about to scream at Eli.

"You better speak. You're the one who got us into this mess. Now get us out of it. I'm going to use a swear word at you, Eli. Don't make me. I will. We all will."

"We're being," said Eli.

"Huh?"

The class exasperated.

"Exactly, Eli. The be verb is a special verb. It takes different forms. The be verb is also the 'Is' verb, is also the 'Are' verb, and the 'Were,' and the 'Was' verb, and the 'Am' verb. It all means the same thing. And it means the be verb does not have a beginning, a middle, or an end. It has all three. All the time."

"So we can't stop being."

"Exactly."

"When do we start being?"

"You already are."

Emily raised her hand. "What if I want to be a doctor?"

"Yeah," thought the choir of boys. "Obviously, Emily is not a doctor."

"You can," said Miss Green.

"Can what? Can be? You said we already are."

The boys were quick to object.

"But, Miss Green, Emily can't be a doctor. She's in school. Yeah, Miss Green. I'm not a policeman yet. Yeah, and Annie's not a vet. Yeah, Miss Green, and Sam isn't a teacher. We're students. We can't be those things. Not yet. How can she already be a doctor?"

"Ah, students, you're confusing doing with being. Of course Emily is not a doctor. Not yet, anyways. Emily has not been to medical school, and she does not have the various medical degrees, and she's obviously too young to work. But learning and having and working are all things we do. We cannot really be a doctor. We will always be who we already are. To be a doctor, then, is to merely do the many things doctors do. If you go to medical school, work in a hospital, prescribe people medicine, and monitor their health, you will do all the things doctors are required to do. And when somebody asks, 'What do you do?' You can tell them, 'I do doctor things.' Of course, people don't speak like that. It sounds awfully strange to tell people what we do. Instead we say what we are. We say, 'I am a doctor,' when we mean to say, 'I am a doctor because I do doctor things.'"

The class wasn't having it. I wasn't having it. I don't want to just do things. I want to be things. Some of the girls are beginning to cry. The boys are fidgeting with their laces, absolutely struck with fear. It was as if Miss Green stripped us of our future, threatening us with immediate and instantaneous death. We couldn't be what we wanted to be because we were stuck being who we already were. Our minds were melting. It just didn't make sense. Annie, somehow, was among the few not crying. She seemed presently relieved.

It was her who asked, "So I don't have to be a vet?"

This again. "No," we wanted to scream. We don't have time, Annie, for your antics. Quit with your veterinary ideals. Our lives are at stake. Who we are is lost."

Miss Green was nicer than we were, but was no less confused. "Annie, I thought you did want to be a vet."

Annie was choking to say the word "veterinarian" when she opted for "homeless" instead. "I don't want to be a homeless vet," she finally exhaled.

Perhaps Miss Green understood at that moment where all of this had gone awry and that this whole elaboration had been a terrible mistake. Even so, Miss Green carried on. At once she asked us to stand and return to our desks. She asked us to open our bags. She asked us to go on a treasure hunt. Not everyone at once, but after we understood where to look and what we would be looking for. "You're searching for yourselves," she said. "To find yourself, you will need to gather items you think yourself will like. This way, even if yourself does not know where to go, yourself will naturally follow the many items yourself already enjoys."

So off we went. We grabbed our favorite book from the shelf, grabbed our favorite color, grabbed our favorite picture. "What is your favorite animal from the chest of toys?," we thought. "What is your favorite letter in the alphabet?" We continued around the classroom, filling our bags until the time expired and our bags were full.

"So," she finally asked, "did you find yourselves?"

This lady really has lost it. "No," one of us replied. "We just found all the things we like."

"Yeah," echoed the boys.

We began showing each other what we most liked. The lines or the cars or the computer games or the cows or the horses or the drums or the harmonicas or the fairy tales or the travel books.

"But did you know you liked those things before you grabbed them?"

"Of course," we thought. "What does she mean, 'did we know'?"

"Travis, when did you first like race cars?"

I thought, "This is an impossible question. I also like race cars, but I have no clue when I began liking them, nor why. Have I always liked race cars? What if I stop liking race cars? Poor Travis. I'm sorry she's picking on you, Travis."

"Let me ask the question again," Miss Green says, "but in a different way. Do you like race cars?"

Travis is confused. I'm further confused. We both answer, "Yes." Out loud, the girls giggle and I blush. I didn't mean to answer. Not out loud.

"You also like race cars," Miss Green asks me, including me in the crossfire.

"Yes," I say.

But I don't know why or when I began liking them. Miss Green reminds us, however, "You weren't looking for what you liked, even though you might have chosen just that."

Then she asks, "What were you all ultimately looking for?"

I responded, "We were looking for our lost self."

"Exactly. So how did you know yourself would like the race car or the pony or the picture book of planes?"

"How did I know?," I thought to myself. Perhaps I was beginning to understand, except this lesson was falling apart. We were on the cusp of something new when we returned to how we always were."

Somebody was about to ask, "Can we go back to verbs?" Then mayhem erupted. The choir of boys began fighting because Nathan stole Connor's favorite book. Connor is arguing with Nathan. He states the book belongs to the school and so he can't have stolen it from Nathan. In reality, Nathan doesn't care for Connor's book, some volume of fairy tales. Nathan only knows this volume of fairy tales is the class favorite and hopes by stealing it for himself, he can trade the book for more animal crackers at snack time.

Meanwhile, Annie is arguing with Brian because Brian is using his safety scissors to cut the whiskers off Pumpkin, the stuffed cat. At this point, at least 13 children aren't behaving as they ought, either fighting with each other, talking against the teacher's voice, or causing chaos by dumping toys across the floor. That's at least 13 pennies taken from our class allowance should Miss Green penalize us. I can't let this continue. Connor arguing for what is just, Nathan trading goods to make himself rich, Annie forever obsessed with animals, me accounting for it all.

Miss Green is frazzled. I tug at her skirt.

"Can we have recess yet?"

And it's decided. Miss Green rings the bell to grab everyone's attention.

"Attention! If we all clean this mess in the next 30 seconds, I'll let us go to recess 15 minutes early."

15 minutes? That's a long recess. We were set. As if no affliction was ever dealt, the boys rushed towards the Legos and the toys. The girls were frenzied, searching for books and organizing them by color along the shelves. I was busy watching the penny jar, counting to 30, assuring our allowance was never depleted. All done.

Everyone stood single-filed, alphabetically. I was behind William, and Annie was behind me. The sun was already setting on this late fall day, and the courtyard was amok with fallen leaves and branches. Best of all, our class was first, a full 15 minutes before any of the other classes. Nothing was a bother but runaway balls and cackling laughter.

By the time Travis planted his first step onto the grass as leader of the line, the whole assembly was already fragmented and sprinting various ways. Miss Green was already sitting in her place on the bench, watching our shenanigans, and waiting for the other teachers to join her. A game of tag was already underway, and somehow I was already it. I made quick work of Eli.

"Tag, you're it!" I screamed.

"No," he said, but I was already halfway across the lawn.

Something about who he was, I think. "I am Eli," he thought to himself.

The thoughts are a lot for five-year-olds, even for Eli. Soon enough, tag became handball, became kickball, became time to return to class, to carpool, to another day of school tomorrow. Until next time, then. We're all quite ready for this to be done.

I sent a text message replying to my grandfather's question, "What is your frank opinion of the Apple card's utility vs cards like AMEX (air miles) or Costco VISA (membership at Costco and minor cash back)? Then the family asked our poet uncle, Tim, to make a poem. He did, using Dada, but I felt ChatGPT could do it better. Hence this post.

I have the Apple credit card—

I find it so funny, so funny that before my work, before my training, I have this great fear, this great divorce from joy and from reality. I forget that life can be full of play, full of excitement. I forget that. I will take ownership of that amnesia. But I might also be affected by the travel, because when I travel, I am passing through my hometown airport, Atlanta's Hartsfield Jackson.

Our mayor will remind you that this is the world's busiest and most efficient airport. I don't doubt it. The train, running underground, connecting the many runways and the many terminals overhead, runs on consistent, almost German in its synchronicity, 90 second intervals.

About 30 seconds, no more will the door is open, and everyone who is inside the train car, the autonomous train car, and it is very much a train and a car, because it is a train with wheels, those passengers on that train car with wheels will flood out, heading to their terminal, and then everyone else will flood in. And in doing so, I channel my inner Japanese body and previous incarnation. My goal in that moment is to cause as little pain, harm, and disturbance to my neighbor. I look down at the ground. Careful not to be distracted by the many beautiful bodies around me, careful not to be distracted by the many sad, obese, troubled, addicted, distracted bodies around me.

I keep to myself. I am confident enough in the balance of my physical body to stay erect despite the jostling of the train car. So I stand in the middle, in the center, taking no handrail, taking no ideal real estate on that car. And upon my stop, I say, "Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, passing through, this is my stop, thank you, thank you so much. All good," as I bump into someone, or more likely as they bump into me. Then we go up the escalator, I wait, I go up more escalators, maybe, grabbing a bite from the Delta Crown Room, all the while smiling as best I can at everyone I pass by.

And this, this routine has so many opportunities for joy and for play and for love, but instead I've taken the wrong attitude over time and seen it as a survival instinct. When I use the public facilities there are times when I hold my breath at a stench versus laughing at, "Oh my, how we've turned this beautiful smelling world into, ooh, foul smelling substances." But I forget those things.

I am thinking foremost about the job I'm to do tomorrow. About all the many to dos I'll have between the time I take my seat on the plane, to the time I land, to the time I'll walk and find the rental car agency, the rental car bus that will take me to that agency, to choosing my car, to checking out, to getting lunch, to steaming my suit to prepare for tomorrow, reviewing the prep work of the doctor whose office I will be visiting, considering the investment that the client for my company has made oftentimes in the 30 to 40 to $50,000 range, and how I will be responsible for that.

They will receive that result more often than not. Even if I have an off day. So there's not too much real pressure, the foundations of their success already paved before me. But nonetheless, there is much unknown, and considering my upbringing, the son of a computer scientist and the son of a certified public accountant, I like a plan, a roadmap: certainty. And not having that is something I can deal with, something I can manage, something I can survive, but it's not something that I foremost prefer. In some ways, I am the pendulum swinging in the other direction of my parents, because when I go on vacation, I plan not.

All of this leads to this photo essay, this first photo essay, inviting you into my routine, but also remembering for myself and filling my own cup, the joy that is nature. Because before the storm of my working day, my team training, I feel vulnerable, isolated, on the road in a foreign land, in a foreign city all by myself.

My peers have their own jobs, have their own lives, and so they are not connected to me by the internet, and by way of my phone. In the middle of the working day, I am by myself. And I know if I want to keep my spiritual routine, my sadhana, my meditation, I will be going to bed early. I will be fasting early.

And while I love everything that Spirit and God have given me, saved me from myself—truly, actually saved me from killing myself—the routine is an uphill journey compared to the flows and the cycles of the world that I live in presently. And all of this, the sum of all these feelings strips me from the smile on my face that I know I could feel at any moment, but I deprive myself from feeling. So that is when, at those exact moments, that is when I go to the park.

Having eaten, having steamed my suit, prepped all my statistics and speaking day notes for the journey ahead, I close my laptop, I close my workbook, and I leave it all behind. I go into my Google Maps, and I type in, "walking trail." And I look, and the first one that looks interesting, boom, bang, we go there. Sometimes just a five, ten minute drive.

So this is it, Before Storms, Orlando, Florida, West Orange Trail. July, 2024.

I've gotten into the routine of eating frozen fruit because fruit is so healthy, so sweet, and I do have a sweet tooth. Frozen fruit is also cheaper and healthier because the farmers know in freezing it, it will last longer, and so they are less reluctant to wait for the fruit to ripen, knowing it will not rot, it will be frozen. The byproduct of this is a yummier, healthier, more efficient fruit. There are more vitamins in that fruit, there is more flavor in that fruit.

So I go to the frozen food section, and I grab my bag of sliced mangoes, and I take that with me, I check out. Depending on the city and the inflation rates of that city, that bag of mangoes that I buy, the small bag, not the big one, is between $2.50 and $3.75. Depending on the neighborhood that I purchase that bag of fruit from, there will be a tax between 0 percent and 10%.

In this neighborhood, I was shopping at a Walmart, and there was no tax. I was in a poorer neighborhood. In downtown LA, for instance, at a Whole Foods, there's a food tax of 10%. Walk 2 miles to the south, even less than that, 1 mile to the south, shopping at a local store, there was no tax. In fact, for WIC products, that's women and infant children foods, the government will provide an additional subsidy on foods that are deemed healthy. Beyond that, in the poor of poor neighborhoods, of which I have visited before, you don't even need to show qualifications to receive those subsidies, for just in being in that neighborhood the government assumes enough burden to deem the redemption necessary. So it is.

I sat on this park bench in Orlando, eating my mangoes, finishing my mangoes, and with my pocket point and shoot camera holstered at my belt line, I unbuckle it, I take it out, and I capture this image of the beautiful old oak trees with their Spanish moss hanging down from the limbs and it reminds me so deeply, so greatly, so fondly of my time as an art student in Savannah.

At this moment, this tree struck me, how again it was growing at an angle, but the ferns and the other primordial plants growing up its trunk were so inviting I had to capture the tree, but the challenge in capturing trees in such a luscious area is finding enough contrast so that the subject stands out from the environment.

And it was just at that moment that I realized this thing called an aperture. is still available to me. So I opened up the aperture, and the depth of field, more shallow in this photo than some of the others, helped me focus on the beauty of the nature. And slowly in taking these photos, I felt more humanity, more joy. A smiling face returned to my countenance.

I walked through the zen garden at this point, and there were lizards everywhere. These lizards had some sort of death wish, or they were so terribly afraid of me that they weren't thinking clearly. I played a game of hopscotch on the cobblestone walkway doing as best I could, walking as timidly as I could, not to crush these lizards.

And they were everywhere, rustling through the bushes, scaring me, me scaring them. Oh, what joy. They were beautiful park benches that I would have sat on taking in that moment, maybe meditated. But the clouds above me were rolling in, and the wind was bringing in cool air, and I knew I only had maybe 10-15 minutes before the skies opened up above me. So it would be, and I kept walking.

I continued from there and we left the garden. We walked down a pathway for bikers and for pedestrians. Interestingly, bikes have been replaced by electric scooters, mopeds, and electric bikes, electric bikes that you don't pedal. You just sit on and if you get bored, you might move your legs.

In this park, they had a basketball court and two tennis courts, and there were trees everywhere of all different colors, but mostly green. In taking a black and white photo, it's strips the park of its color. And then all there is are these micro shapes and organisms: the leaves, the bark, the plants, the seeds.

I find it adorable how we had built this bridge that goes mostly nowhere. We could have easily walked around it, but the bridge is part of the architecture, part of the conquering of the land, but even better than conquering, we opted to leave the land as it were and work with that land, work over that land.

We kept walking and a little ways down from this path, there was a neighborhood, a traditional Florida neighborhood, flat as flat can be. Oh my goodness. It was so flat, this neighborhood. It felt surreal. Like in a dream, a Dr. Seuss dream, like in a dream where being so flat it felt that we might fall off, that there was no atmosphere to keep us grounded, no hill to protect us, vulnerable, agoraphobia comes to mind.

But, from this flatness, this grassland, this suburbian grassland that is 100 percent artificial and contrived using the latest pesticides and grass, there were men mowing in the late afternoon evening, having already come home from work, and there were cars returning home from work. And in the distance, there are clouds, white clouds from the sunny morning and mid afternoon being slowly consumed by the dark storm clouds of the late afternoon and evening.

But the highlights of these clouds: how beautiful. And the storm clouds were rolling in. And I knew now, I only had a few minutes before the rain set in.

Nobody leaves their home. It's very strange. And so the result is a neighborhood with empty streets. And for the passers by, and the visitors like myself walking down these roads feels and reminds me of the dream that I am living, that none of this is real.

So I continued realizing that the sky was about to open up and that there would be nothing left pretty soon.

And then, finally, as I came to the end of my walk, I felt it so beautiful to consider this trifecta of our humankind. The sky, of course, is the light and the firmament, giving us the energy and the joy we need to keep going. And this is connected by the solar panels on the homes, the energy harnesses and baskets, and vessels that we use to capture and save the beauty of the sky, be it a photograph or a DC battery for storing the energy gleaned from the solar panel. And that energy is, of course, used for the home, but funny as it is, we use it to create more light. We use it for the streetlights.

So the streetlights are waiting to be turned on. Waiting for the sun to shine down and rain cosmic rays upon the roof until that energy is recycled and given back to us, back through our eyes, through our skin, and then we emit a different type of light, an infrared light: energy, heat, and the cycle repeats itself indefinitely. How beautiful.

It rained hard after this, and I decided I wasn't quite through with my food consumption. Oh, Quentin. I went back to that Walmart. And I bought, not just mangoes, but, a drink for myself. A healthy drink, but a drink nonetheless. I was supposed to be fasting, but this drink had calories in it. And I exit, and it is ... it's on the Doppler not red but turning back to purple and blue. So heavy it could have been mistaken for snow. That's how dense the pellets were in this kind of thunderstorm.

I made a run for it. And as I ran, I realized that there was more water pressure coming from these clouds than there would have been from my Fairfield Inn shower. Yet I had my clothes on, and my clothes were drenched, having taken just ten steps so far I realized I would run the rest of the way to the car. So I did, and in doing so I had great, great fun, and I got to the car, hair, sopping wet like a mop. My one pair of pants, oh, how they would mildew, but that's okay. I returned to the hotel room, cozy, cozy as a foreign shared space can be, raining outside. And I remembered I would have work to do tomorrow.

Probably the greediness of my eating too late, I would come not to sleep for more than three or four hours at night, one of my worst night's sleep ever on the road. But it was okay. The next day was okay. That's the beauty of nature, the beauty of sharing and remembering these photographs, that even before a storm, before life's storm when it feels like the rain clouds are rolling in and covering up the lightness, covering up the joy and the fun and the play, even in that, a breath, to hear the frogs and to hear the lizards, to hear the water falling upon the lily pads, oh these are the simple joys that remind us that our work in this life, and that our relationships in this life, and that our struggles in this life, the travel, the eating, the bills, the budgeting, it is a great tool and is a great to do to occupy us and to test us, but when we're through with it, the real joy is free and waiting for us.

The parks are always empty. They're waiting for us.

Happy birthday. I love giving. They say gifting is a selfish endeavor because the giver receives just as much, if not more, than the receiver. I give two things, things I wish I would own but do not trust myself to own, and things I do own that bring me such pleasures that I want others to own them too.

Your gifts are a mixture of both the things I have used and the things I wish I would own, but instead I feel more comfortable giving away. For one, there is the Dream Tape, because you mentioned reluctance to forego mouth taping at night. Jesse Itzler mentioned Dream Tape, and immediately, between my slide cueing, I made a note to purchase this overpriced novelty, carefully crafted, thoughtfully marketed, breathable bamboo tape that is so extra ($1.20 per) when 20 cents medical tape from CVS would do just as well. Part of Dream Tape's success is the personal investment. Like our clients who spend hundreds of thousands for no more content, their return on investment is promised because of their inordinate financial investment and commitment. They are bought in. Now the question for you. Can a friend buy you in?

The second item is also a personal love, and perhaps a mutual love. Reverse engineering our phones to be less addictive. The Brick is a brilliant idea that mostly works. Here is the elevator pitch. Imagine your phone having a physical key that locks you out of your worst digital habits.

No subscription, just a 3D-printed NFC device. Tap to lock, tap again to unlock. Put the key somewhere inconvenient, like your car. Or leave it at home while on the road, to guarantee an end to your addictions. Lock YouTube, the app, and the website. Lock Instagram. Download only the apps you need for work. Then block the App Store.

The brick turns your phone into a tool. Later this year, macOS will introduce iPhone mirroring, letting you control your phone from your Mac. This will be the actual end of my smartphone. My iPhone will sit in my backpack connected to a battery bank, never to be removed except when boarding or navigating in a new city.

All other iOS tasks, downloading my boarding pass, downloading content, reviewing voicemails will be completed on my Mac during a dedicated work session, not sporadically while restless running errands. Finally, I will give you the gift I love but cannot use: the Boox Palma. I dream of having an e-ink smartphone. The Boox Palma is the closest thing to that future.

Sadly, it does not have a cellular modem, Wi-Fi to connect. However, it runs full Android, unlike Kindle. So any app is yours to download. What's noteworthy is that the Palma supports a 30Hz refresh rate. The standard e-ink Kindle is 1Hz, or refreshing just once every second.

The Palma is actually usable as a smart device. Scroll, type, and even watch videos. Psychologists highlight the impact of setting when defining behavior. I imagine Palma as the perfect media setting. All good media lives on the Palma, music, audiobooks, Kindle books, PDFs, news, journaling, etc. So that the phone is a true tool, boring and casually unnecessary, just as a true tool.

We don't pine for our toolbox when not constructing. The e-inkness means you can spend time outdoors, consuming in direct sunlight with perfect readability. It also means you can consume at night without the adverse effects of blue light. I have already unboxed the device and set up primary apps. Still, an initial demo with me may also be required, for there are some helpful shortcuts to know, especially if you are unfamiliar with Android.

I look forward to this new, tech-liberated version of you. From Quentin.