N J Ray
Life 2.0 and other weird shit
I’ve been reading Dying to be Me by ANITA MOORJANI. I had first heard of her several years ago…
I think Thanksgiving is kind of like Valentine’s Day—if someone beats their partner 364 days a year but brings them chocolate on Valentine’s Day, does that mean that Valentine’s Day is special?
Fiction, I’ve read (somewhere) is the art of telling lies that present a greater truth. Fiction walks the tightrope between fantasy and reality.
I have a confession to make: I have lost my voice. It’s here, somewhere, or there somewhere. Maybe it’s next to my car keys I can’t find at the moment, either.
I f we are to eventually accept that we can, in fact, be change makers, with both ourselves and the world, how do we even begin that journey?
I had the opportunity to attend “An Evening with Marianne Williamson” on her Love America tour last week. (I love that name. I wish I had come up with it.) She spoke of many things, all of which supported this: “Where there is love, there are always...
In the excitement of having sooo much to write about, my horses were so far behind the cart that they were still checking out the Golden Gate Bridge while the cart was taking in a Broadway show.
When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. Maya Angelou When we attach yourself to someone’s coat-tails, whether his trajectory rises or falls, our view never changes. All we see is ass.
There’s that truth, no matter how cliche, that tells us if we do what we’ve always done, we’ll get what we’ve always gotten.
“The world could be burning,” a friend once told me, “and you wouldn’t play the fiddle. You’d be writing about the flashes of flame and the smell of singeing hair.” It’s probably true.