When we are all muddling around in the dark, what will light up the night?
What's the point of remembering when memories are flawed anyway?
Without intending to be nostalgic for a time that isn’t mine
I don't really understand Talmud, but sometimes it speaks to me in ways I can't ignore.
A meditation on the demands of memory, and the roots of personal identity
I used to hate small talk. I still mostly do. But I'm starting to think we might be able to redeem it.
This time of year calls for reduced joy, but I can't stop listening to the classics.
On transformation - and the space in between all the stops along the way.
