Three days ago I did an 18 km mud challenge/obstacle course/ski hill climb and descent which ended in running through live wires. I got electrocuted twice, it really hurt, I thought I was crazy, but laughed so hard for having completed an 18 km mud challenge/obstacle course/ski hill climb and descent.

I did it! Holy catfish! I did it! And of course I did. Being an artist, this feeling is familiar.

We did it! Can you believe we made this thing? We said we would do it and we did it.

Unbeknownst to me, in athletics there's a thing called DOMS - delayed onset muscle soreness. It is the physical equivalent to the emotional crash I feel after every show ends it's run.

I like DOMS. It's in the body, fueled with adrenaline and cries out for rest, treatment, love, massages. Proof of life.

There's a passage in Adam Gopnik's From Paris to the Moon where he talks about chicken. When I lived in Paris, I recreated his experience of - In the morning, selecting and ordering a chicken. Mid-day, checking in on that chicken as it started to roast. Late afternoon picking it up and brining it home to dine.

This delayed gratification was easy in France. At home, not so easy.

So tomorrow, I'm going to buy a delicious baked good in the morning, let it sit on my counter all day, and eat it in the late afternoon.

I will be okay to only look at the piece of cake.

I will remember that it is not a matter of restraint, but rather it is the joy of anticipation.

Even if the cake's not all that great. The wait was everything.

I remember pennies being thrown at me. Pick 'em up Jew boy.

I remember a teacher telling us, in shame, that her grandfather prided himself on his ashtray made of Jew bones.

I remember weeping at Yad Vashem – every time I've been.

I remember feeling at home as a socialist in Israel – every time I've been.

When I was five, I rememer I was at school playing in the sandbox and this boy told me he was glad Hitler killed all the Jews. I shoved his head into the sand and held it there until a teacher pulled me off. We were both suspended.

I remember learning to remember.

In early November 2016, I went to a psychic healer. I remember ranting about time and my lack of it. The healer challenged me to split time in half: As many times as I wanted. Stretch it out. If you want, a day can be an eternity.

Remember when you could do that as a child?

Mid-August 2017, here I am at the just-past-halfway point in my thought residency, and I'm thinking about time again. Trying to slow it down. Feeling like I'm on the other side of things in life.

What do I want to devote the next 3 to 5 to 35 years of my life doing? How can I spend more time with my family, my friends, myself?

How can I find time to split time?

Today, I'm a worried husband, father, friend, Jew, artist, human, and I'm thinking about the monster.

My monster is filled with hate and vengeance. He's mean.

He's not obviously violent. Doesn't throw punches or light fires.

Instead, my monster is devious and finds subversively violent ways to ruin lives, destroy families, and end friendships.

My monster works to make people feel bad. Make them suffer, mentally.

The monster is not positive, but he lives with me

Today my Uber driver did up my window and put on the air conditioning without asking.

I felt like my kids must feel.

In school, my acrobatics teacher would give us a rest and then say: 'and every good moment ends'.

From early childhood I've been conditioned to accept fun and joy being given, and then taken away with little to no warning. "Shut off the TV now. Bath time's over. Play time's over. Five minutes and we're going home."

I've been in training for submission.

What a difficult thing to master.

Today I don't want to work but I'm going to.

Today my body is asking for a break. I'm sweaty. I'm drowsy. My eyes are burning. My mind wants a break. I want to shower, putz around my house and then maybe take a bath. I want to feel bad for myself.

I was told that it's probably the weather.

Today I feel bad for feeling bad for myself. I'm lazy. I should suck it up, take a pill, go for a walk, get back to work.

And so, I do.

Oh the disgrace of sadness! The weakness of fear.

Examination can be the great killer of experience.

But I will try.

I don't know why I make or say or do at least 15% of my life.

This part of myself doesn't ask why. Doesn't analyse - my instincts, actions, emotions, desires, or how I can be bull-headed, grumpy, and flippant.

It is this 15% of myself that is in constant chaos, that keeps me curious and questioning everything.

It is my friend who invites failure and says that change is possible.

J'adore la langue française, et je ne parle pas très bien le français parce que mon grammer est terrible, mais je comprends plus.

My French is terrible but I pretend that I'm very good at speaking it.

When I'm in a French speaking place, I try to watch and listen. I talk to myself, out loud, a lot. I plan a few key phrases and then I engage as though I understand and when I don't I ask: Qu'est-ce que c'est le mot (insert a French word they just said) en anglais?

It sometimes works.

It sometimes doesn't.

Et, c'est tout.

At 27, some friends and I took a trip and drove the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island. A number of times I got stuck behind cars moving way too slowly, and every time, it stressed me out. Only me. Then at some point my friend Vlad – a circus artist from Los Angeles – set me right when he said: 'Hey now. Where are you going?'

I am quick to impatience, I bore easily and I can be unforgiving while I'm waiting for progress in other people.

I'm consistently checking that.