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Drove Aneesah to Pilates. Returned a faulty item. Bought breakfast ingredients. Went for a run. Picked Aneesah up from Pilates. Had breakfast. Hit the trail with Aneesah and Cacio, sat on a bench and looked at the (incredible) view. Pharmacy. Groceries at Berkeley Bowl. Next: dinner, a bit of admin, and a bit of nothing.

It was a day of many small things (known colloquially as a Sunday), but together simply describes one thing: a good life. A rich life. A life where I get to spend time with this person and this animal that I love. A life where I’m thankful for where I live; thankful for the nature and the views and the sun. A life well… living?

Life, after all, is all of these little moments strung together. It’s not any one big moment, it’s all of the really small ones. We sometimes let them slip by as if we’re looking for the next big event, but that moment is just another small one, built upon all of the others that came before. The small moments are the point.

Saturday run along the Berkeley waterfront with a friend. We don’t manage to do it every week, but I always look forward to it. The miles go by easy when you’re talking, joking and laughing with a friend. We planned to camp in the summer, talked about what it means to make things with your own hands, and especially what it means to focus on the last mile yourself (not a running pun).

I got a book in the mail that was made to coincide with the release of a wonderful typeface, Otto. The typeface was released by Dinamo and designed by Sam de Groot and Laura Opsomer Mironov. It’s quite beautiful. The book, though, is an object I needed to own, because I love books and especially love books like this.

This book didn’t need to exist. I suspect that the typeface would have sold similarly without it. But it does exist, and it exists in such a wonderful way. It’s typeset and illustrated beautifully. It’s well made. It’s nice to hold. A joy to read. It’s a nice thing made at the end of a long journey making another very nice thing.

It’s objects like this that make me so grateful to be surrounded by creative people, and so inspired to create myself. Holding objects made with love makes you want to make things of your own with love—and effort, and care. You can inspire people to make with what you make. There’s maybe no higher honor, actually.

Some days just totally disappear. Gone in a blink. I ran a mile at 11pm because apparently I couldn’t run one before then. I must have been able to, but I couldn’t. It took me just under nine minutes, and I’m almost certain I must have had several lots of nine minutes throughout the day. I probably spent nine minutes drinking coffee. Nine minutes reading an article. Nine minutes scrolling an endless feed. The nine minutes of running felt better; felt good, actually.

I tried something today that was weirdly effective: I worked in public… in private. I started a thread in a public Slack channel and kept updating it with loose thoughts, references, screenshots of work in progress, and little Loom videos covering some concept or prior art or whatever. It was fun to share and bring people along, but it was also super useful personally. It helped to keep me on task, externalized my thinking, and gave me some light social pressure.

I’ve always liked the idea of working in public, which is why I own workinginpublic.com. I haven’t done anything with the domain yet, and I’m not sure what I will do with it, but I just like the idea. There’s something so great about getting to see how people think, and getting an insight into their beautiful messy process (because let’s face it, we all have a pretty messy process). Starting in a space that was a bit (or a lot) more private helped, I think.

I’m printing and binding my own copy of someone else’s monologue that I love. In general this category of thing often gets printed and bound so badly, and you’re left holding this thing that doesn’t feel as wonderful or considered as the text inside it. I’m not even saying it has to be expensive or fancy. It could be a simple chapbook (and in fact, mine will be) but could have a wonderful cover. It could be typeset beautifully. It could be just the right size, with just the right margins. Perhaps it shouldn’t really matter, but it does matter.

I’ve got nothing today. Things happened, of course, but I just don’t feel like writing about the things that did happen. Not because they’re bad or secret, I just feel like keeping most of a day to myself from time to time. I’m sat here now with a strong cup of tea and the sound of the ocean in my ears. The pacific is such a force.

I still want to live a in a lighthouse and read books in front of an open fire. I want to be surrounded by books. I want a comfy chair. I want wind howling at the windows, a gentle rattle reminding me of how completely vulnerable we are and how absolutely bonkers glass is. Hot sand that turns invisible and protects us. Weird stuff.

Alright, I’m going to finish this tea and go to bed. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to read. I’m exhausted and trying to get better sleep. It turns out that getting more sleep and drinking more water is just demonstrably good for you and it’s completely devastating because I’m terrible at both. Alas, I’ll just have to learn.