How can you let go of trying to make your life tell a particular story enough to find out where it all goes?

I read this book once by Michael Crichton, a strange book not like his others, sort of a memoir of his encounters with weird stuff. He tried spoonbending once. It was a party full of people trying to get metal to warp through just thinking about it. He said that when it happened it took the kind of concentration that you have when you’re walking with a full cup of tea, that wire-thin balance between totally focused and totally relaxed, half-watching out of the corner of your eye but not really looking. Maybe life is best lived like that?

Also, what is the right amount of honesty? Why do some people make me feel like their interest will scrape me clean, leaving nothing, and others make me feel like there is everything in the world to say, and that it will be heard and given back and we will both be more for it?


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