Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita.
I am reading Sam Sheridan’s “The Fighter’s Mind, Inside the Mental Game” and Kathryn Schulz’ “Being Wrong, Adventures in the Margin of Error.” Next up is “The Ego Tunnel” by Thomas Metzinger.
I like to read, I really do.
Yesterday I got to do one of my favorite things, which is to stand in the middle of a crime scene and try to see what happened by looking carefully at the aftermath. Blood and dirt, broken glass, shell casings, scuff marks, a matted chunk of hair, part of a fingernail.
We got it all figured out.
Today is quiet and overcast and still. We went for a walk along the cliffs, under gray skies, the sea leaden and glowing molten in places where the cloud cover thinned, the dry grass browned and rattle-headed, everything hushed and dormant feeling. Came back and cleaned the house, got the wood floors gleaming and polished, the house neat as a pin and quiet, too. The dryer is rumbling, but that’s about it.
Pizza dough is rising on the stove now, getting ready for grilled sausage and fig pizza with goat cheese, arugula, and pomegranate molasses.
You have to eat good while you’re still kicking, man. This is the last chance you got, there’s no pizza in nirvana.
Maybe on the outskirts you could get some, though.
So far my favorite observation that Schulz makes in her book on being wrong is that there is no feeling of being wrong.
As soon as you are aware that you’re wrong about something, you no longer believe what you were wrong about. You can only be aware of having been wrong. Before you figure it out, being wrong feels exactly like being right.
That explains some things, don’t it.
Your task, should you accept it:
Be good to yourself.
Be good to other people.
Eat good food.
Go for a walk.