This Week In Not Surfing

In my line of work people talk fervently about "storytelling." I myself have used the word dozens of times in professional presentations over the past few years.

And stories have become "meditations on violence" and explorations of human depravity. "Whirlwinds of anti-climax" and shotgun shells full of buckshot goose pimples.

And to think, I used to constantly make a joke about all sorts of things being "This Year's Full Monty."

And there was a time I assumed the inexorable march of evolution would be inherently positive, even maybe kind.

But now I figure one possible reaction to the realization that you’re about to die (really die) is to feel a momentary wave of relief that the suffering will end. This then will turn (almost as instantly) into the inconsolable realization of a life misspent not attempting to ease the suffering of others.
 
And the fact is, right now it would be nice to be anonymous in my own neighborhood, surrounded by the comforts of home and the added comfort of silence.

But our stories feel bloated and isolated - one offs damned to remain told only the once - and I don't know where I got the idea that evolution wears boots.

But there are waves somewhere in the world and thank heavens someone is riding them.